


Blank Maps

by Matryyoshka



Series: Wolf Like Me [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gay People Exist at Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/F, M/M, Quidditch, Starks are Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-05-18 21:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matryyoshka/pseuds/Matryyoshka
Summary: Sansa works to liberate her father, with the help of Margaery and her siblings. But is Ned Stark's arrest just one part of a bigger conspiracy? The Triwizard Tournament is coming to Hogwarts, and it's set to be more dangerous than ever before. Nothing is as it seems, and none of the adults can be trusted. Everyone is keeping secrets - and some of them will prove deadly.





	1. Worlds on Fire

Sansa's heart beats steadily faster the further North they get - the closer to home they get.

 

For the sake of appearances, the Starks stay in the car for a couple of miles after passing through Winter Town. The settlement is a good mix of Muggle and magical folk, and the Statute of Secrecy has always been... flexible in the North, a place where everyone knows that the seven hundred foot tall Wall is separating them from _something_. Still, the family secret hasn't been kept safe for this long without a degree of caution. Ned Stark is almost as fond of saying "Constant vigilance!" as he is of saying "Winter is coming."

 

But when Hodor pulls off the main road, Sansa, Arya, Robb, and Jon fall over each other scrambling out of the Range Rover. Jeyne and Theon laugh at them from the back seat, and Bran is already warging into Summer as the wolf jumps out behind them. Sansa jogs into the woods and takes a deep breath to ensure no one is around, then transforms. She runs through the brush as fast as she can, delighting in being home _._  It's summer, but there's nonetheless a slight chill in the air, and Sansa welcomes its bite. 

 

He's so fast that Sansa almost doesn't smell him before she sees him. A blur of red bursts out from the trees, and then Rickon is running circles around her, yipping joyfully. His paws are still too big for the rest of him, but otherwise he's Sansa in miniature. She nips at him playfully and they take off again, meeting with with rest of the pack and running all the way to Winterfell. 

 

Sansa lets the rest of them run ahead through the North Gate as wolves. She likes to come in as a human, as a Lady of Winterfell and Princess of the North, however antiquated those titles may be. It feels important now, with her parents away, and with Robb and Jon often in King's Landing themselves. She pulls the cloak Hodor left for her tightly around herself and steps over the threshold of the keep. 

 

_Home._

 

"Lady Sansa!" The Greatjon sees her from across the yard and crosses to her with three strides of his long legs. "How were your exams? Not letting school distract you from the important things, I hope!"

 

Sansa grins in return. Jon Umber had been one of the Northern Lords most opposed to a teenage girl stepping into her parents' shoes, but once she had gained his respect he had championed her to all the other houses. 

 

"You're far from home, Lord Umber. Is everything alright?"

"Aye, now that we're starting to get the mountain troll problem under control. Thank you kindly for giving us the use of some of your forces."

 

"Of course," Sansa says, walking with him back to his massive motorbike. "And how did the planting go? It's looking to be a harsh winter."

 

"That's what I came for, to talk to Mr. Poole about borrowing the plans for your glass gardens. Smalljon has some ideas for making them work in our own keep..."

 

The two of them chat for a while before the Greatjon mounts his motobike and takes off into the air. Sansa greets the stablemaster warmly and inquires about the hippogriff fledglings in the Godswood. She signs off on a request to hire another trainer for the thestrals. Mikken touches base with her about his progress on Rickon's new wand in passing. Sansa is so caught up in the rhythm of what she's been doing all year that she doesn't notice Robb at first, leaning against the door of the armoury with an unreadable expression on his face.

 

"You're better at this than I am," he says grudgingly and a little hopelessly, running a hand through his hair. 

 

Sansa feels for him. It must be hard to watch her have the trust of so many of the Northerners, trust that he still has to win to some degree. Not that they don't love Robb; he's Eddard Stark's firstborn, and they know he'll be their leader someday. But respect is a different kettle of fish, and as much as Robb has their father's seat, and the advantage of being a man, Sansa is the one who's been here. _It would be easier,_  she thinks, _if this were the kind of battle he could take them into, where he could prove his mettle._ But this isn't some grand campaign from days of old. It's a legal battle that takes him far south and away from his realm. The Northerners can understand the importance of it - but unfortunately, Robb is still a bit out of sight and out of mind at the moment. 

 

"You've been working hard in King's Landing, Robb. I've sort of... gotten into the swing of things here. You'll get the hang of it. Especially now that you're done school."

 

"I'll have to," he says earnestly. "You're going into sixth year, and that's no joke. And you... deserve to have more of a life than you've had. You have Margaery now, after all," he says, smirking a little bit.

 

Sansa feels her face warm at the mention of the other girl. The past week had been as wonderful as it had been surreal. She still can't quite believe that she's  _dating_ Margaery Tyrell. She'd sort of put it out of her mind as they neared Winterfell, filling her head instead with everything she'd have to do once she arrived. But now she remembers the way Margaery had kissed her right there on the platform in front of everyone and murmured _goodbye,_  her dark eyes pinning Sansa to the spot.  _Will thinking of Margaery ever_ not _make me swoon?_

"Okay, gross. I don't want to know where you went in your head just now," Robb jokes. Sansa rolls her eyes and walks with him to the Keep. 

 

"Listen, I've got an idea. Why don't you take a few people and portkey over to the Last Hearth? Lord Umber said that he'd be mopping up some stragglers from the mountain trolls, and it'll be a good opportunity for you to show him what you're made of. Just don't back down from him."

 

Robb brightens noticeably. "That's a great idea! Thanks Sans. I'll grab Theon and Jon, I bet they'll want to come too."

 

"Take Jory and Alyn as well. It'll make him take you more seriously," Sansa calls after him as he runs to get ready.

 

_Two birds, one stone._

Sansa feels a bit guilty about getting rid of Robb as she climbs the stairs to her father's solar, not even pausing at her own bedroom. Robb and Jon would likely insist on helping, since they were the ones who had been trying to handle Ned's case till now. _But detectives, they are not,_  Sansa thinks ruefully. Her brothers think in straight lines and black and white, and Sansa doesn't think that's what this situation calls for.

 

_If we could just talk to Dad, this would be easier_. But Ned is in Azkaban without visitation rights, and none of them have spoken to him in almost a year. 

 

That thought sets her heart to hurting, especially when she opens the heavy door to his solar and her keen nose picks up her father's scent. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting her eyes prick for a moment.

 

_Alright. Time to work._

She takes a careful look around the room, trying to see it with new eyes. It's stayed mostly as he left it, other than the one half of the desk that Sansa had allowed herself to clear as a working space. A detailed map of the North takes up one entire wall, and there are books stacked neatly on the shelf beside the window. The desk is a mess of ledgers and correspondence. Sansa knows that her mother has been through all of this with a fine toothed comb, but nonetheless sits down at the desk and carefully begins sorting through the papers. 

 

All year, she's felt sort of like a kid playing at being an adult here at her father's desk, but now it feels different. It feels right. Being on the offensive instead of just trying to hold things together has given her a sense of power and purpose that makes her feel like she can stand a bit taller. 

 

Still, that confidence doesn't do her any good as she comes up empty while looking at her father's things. She pushes down her frustration and moves onto the book shelf. She methodically takes out each book and thumbs through it. Most of them are dry histories of the North and treatises on politics. There's one, though, that doesn't seem like her father's usual fare.

 

_The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, with Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children._

 

Sansa frowns. It's the same book that Margaery had found in the Hogwarts library that had helped her piece together the Stark family secret. But why would her father have a copy? 

 

_What family secret did you find out, Dad? And who wanted to keep you quiet?_

* * *

 

Loras flies low, darting through Highgarden's magnificent orchard. He corkscrews between the branches of a tree, grabbing a peach as he does and stopping with a _whoosh_ right in front of Renly where he lays on a bench. His boyfriend looks up, bemused, and Loras offers him the peach with a smirk. 

 

Renly takes it with the soft smile reserved for Loras alone. Loras is glad to cheer him up, at least a little bit. Summers are always hard for Renly. He spends most of his time at Highgarden, but the need to do so is a reminder of what he's avoiding: namely, his brothers. Renly's orientation is something they don't talk about, but that's always in the room with them. 

 

It's different for Loras. There are still those who remember when Highgarden belonged to the Gardeners, instead of the half-blood Tyrell upstarts. So there's always a level of snobbiness among the old families, despite the Tyrells' wealth - adding some known homosexuals to their family tree isn't a huge blow to their image. And the South, in general, has always been more progressive than the Stormlands. 

_And, well. Robert is a raging asshole._

  
Loras hops off his broom and joins his boyfriend on the bench, laying Renly's head in his lap. He strokes his hair absently as Renly continues to flip through _Quidditch Quarterly_. It doesn't bother him that their relationship is more or less an open secret. What bothers him is that Renly is so clearly miserable.

 

_I can't make his family better. But I can make everything else better._

They laze around in the orchard all afternoon before making their way to one of the courtyards for dinner. The Tyrells don't bother much with the Hall unless they're having guests, choosing instead to sit outside in the open air. Loras's mother Alerie is there already, pruning the vines that sweep across the trellis on one side of the yard. Willas has come up from Hogsmeade, and he's deep in conversation with their father Mace about interest rates at Gringotts. 

 

Loras and Renly are just sitting down when Margaery sweeps out of the castle and flings herself into a chair across from them. She sighs heavily and levels a glare at the two of them, presumably for daring to be happy.

 

"Missing your girlfriend already, Marge? Seems a little bit desperate to me," Loras baits her. 

 

" _You_  didn't finally get with the girl of your dreams after a _year_  of pining only to have to leave her _six days_  after the fact!" Margaery huffs. "And then, on top of it all, it's been almost twenty-four hours and she hasn't even _called_."

 

"Doesn't she have... approximately a million responsibilities at home, though?" Renly ventures carefully. 

 

"A gaggle of younger siblings."

 

"The constant threat of all sorts of monsters encroaching on their territory and on Muggle settlements."

 

"All the North's trade agreements."

 

"A father in prison."

 

" _Yes, okay,"_ Margaery says. "Just let me pout about my girlfriend like a normal godsdamned teenager for a moment, alright? Is that so much to ask?"

 

"Well, well! You found your spine and got your girl after all," Olenna says, taking her seat at the head of the table. 

 

"Just securing that Northern alliance for you, Grandmother," Loras says dryly. 

 

Olenna gives him a Look. "And what have you been doing? Have you opened a book at all since your exams?"

 

"It's been _two days_."

 

"How's the shop doing, Willas?" Mace interrupts, blatantly attempting to change the subject. Loras appreciates it, clumsy as it is. His grandmother doesn't have much use for him, which is feeling that his father knows well. He wishes that he could just stop caring about his grandmother's approval, but he can't quite do it - and that bothers him even more. 

 

Dinner is much more civil after that, mostly because the conversation is monopolized by the upcoming Quidditch World Cup final. The Vale is playing Braavos, and the two teams have been evenly matched for the entire tournament. Loras is ten minutes into explaining a hypothetical gameplan using black and green olives to illustrate his point when he feels Olenna's eyes on him. He looks away. 

 

They sit around drinking wine until well after sunset. Loras carefully avoids the side of the table where his grandmother sits. Fortunately, she seems to have given up on him, choosing instead to grill Margaery on her new relationship with Sansa Stark. 

 

"I believe in you, you know," Renly says softly when Willas has gone home and Loras's parents have abandoned them in favour of deadheading the azaleas.

 

Loras smiles. "You don't care that you'll be some Ministry hotshot with an empty-headed Quidditch player on your arm?"

 

"Not at all. You'll be my trophy husband."

 

The two of them laugh a little awkwardly. Being publicly together - let alone _married_  - is a hypothetical future that both of them try not to think too much about. Loras has been happy to let Renly go at his own pace, especially since it doesn't affect them much at Hogwarts. _Next year, though, it'll be a different thing altogether,_  Loras thinks glumly. 

 

Renly's lips on his temple bring him back to the present. Somewhere along the line, Margaery and Olenna have disappeared back into the castle. The only light is the candles on the table burning low, and the glow of fireflies in the garden. Loras turns to Renly and watches the firelight flicker across the planes of his face before he leans in, resolving to stay in the moment.

 

* * *

 

King's Landing is a hellhole.

 

Sansa picks her way through teeming streets, the smell of garbage and automobile exhaust assaulting her sensitive nose. Arya looks similarly unimpressed beside her. They cut through a park that's marginally less overstimulating and climb the steps of the old walk-up their mother has been using as her base in the city. 

 

The girls are surprised when the door opens before they can ring the bell, and even more surprised when Daenerys Targaryen emerges.

 

"Dany! What are you doing here?" Sansa gives her a friendly hug. Despite Rhaegar Targaryen having been a complete asshole, and so the issue of his children being a complicated one, Ned Stark and Elia Martell had decided that the children should know each other. So in the interest of Jon, Rhaenys, and Aegon being able to grow up together, the Starks and Martells had hosted each other often. This had included Daenerys and occasionally her brother Viserys, who had had no one after their father Aerys's imprisonment in Azkaban. 

 

Sansa and Dany hadn't always gotten along, but after having spent almost the entire summer together at the Water Gardens the previous year, they'd gotten closer. Sansa had had a chance to see the steadfast kindness behind Dany's arrogant exterior, and Dany had learned that Sansa wasn't quite as uptight as she had seemed. Their friendship had been cemented when they'd outstrategized the boys and destoyed them in an epic water fight. Sadness creeps into Sansa's gut - that had been before everything with their father, when winning games against her siblings had been her biggest concern.

 

Arya gives Dany a nod and a smile, always having been much more reserved about the older girl - despite the fact that Daenerys had promised to let her fly on one of her dragons if she was ever in Essos. Dany smiles back easily and hefts the heavy messenger bag on her shoulder.

 

"I came to drop off some stuff for Jon with your mum. Now that he's of age there are some properties to be dealt with, hereditary positions he has to sign off to representatives - unless he's really interested on being on the Council for Essosi Trade Agreements, which I doubt he is, stuff like that." Dany sighs dramatically, then sobers. "I'm sorry about your dad. I haven't been able to say anything in person yet, but... I know how you feel, to an extent."

 

"Except that your dad was guilty," Arya says uncharitably. Sansa elbows her viciously for her lack of tact.

 

Dany just nods. "Except for that part. He was mad before he was thrown in there, I know that. But visiting him there was... hard. And I would never wish that on anyone, let alone a good man like your father."

 

Sansa doesn't like to think about her father being slowly crushed under the weight of the sadness the Dementors cultivate. Likes even less the thought of Ned Stark dying alone in prison like Aerys Targaryen. She puts her hand on Dany's arm. "I don't think your dad deserved to be there either. I don't think _most_ people deserve to be there. And I don't think you and Viserys should have had to run away to Essos to escape public opinion."

 

"Gods know Robert Baratheon isn't exactly the amazing replacement everyone had hoped for," Arya adds wryly. "Sometimes I think Dad regrets backing him as Minister."

 

Dany smiles bitterly. "Are we ever going to stop paying for the sins of our parents? I didn't ask for my father to be mad. Jon didn't ask for his dad to be... well, an asshole, as much as he was my brother. And now we're the ones who have to deal with the wreckage they left behind."

 

Sansa feels a bit uncomfortable. Her parents are honestly pretty lovely. _But are we not still suffering from all their bullshit? Whatever secret Dad stumbled on? The world they made when they put Robert Baratheon in our highest office? He_ killed _Rhaegar in a duel! All because neither of them could see Aunt Lyanna as anything but a prize._

Arya clears her throat, for once being the one to want to break the tension first. "We'd better get on, Sans. I don't want to spend any longer in this cesspool than I need to."

 

Dany laughs at that, clear and ringing. "Alright. I'll leave you to it. I might see you sooner than you think, actually." She winks and Disapparates with a _pop_ before they can ask what that means. 

 

Sansa and Arya exchange a puzzled glance. "Whatever man," Arya shrugs, "I feel like we have enough mysteries to focus on right now."

 

Arya leaves her to use the washroom, so Sansa walks through the foyer and into the kitchen, where Catelyn Stark sits at the table with a cup of coffee steaming in front of her, scribbling in a Muggle notebook. 

 

Sansa watches her for a moment, trying to sort through her emotions. She's happy to see her, obviously. And she knows that what her mother has been doing here is important. But there's just the smallest kernel of resentment inside of her, for how abandoned she's felt this past year. When was the last time she and her mother actually talked, other than to communicate responsibilities regarding Rickon and Winterfell?

 

_We used to talk all the time, but now she doesn't even know about Margaery._

 

Then Catelyn turns to her and Sansa sees the weary circles under her eyes, and the sheer joy on her face as she sees her daughter for the first time in months, and any anger drains out of her.

 

"Sansa!" Her mother has her swept up in a hug before she can say anything, and she hides her face in Catelyn's hair. She's been taller than her mum since she was thirteen, but in her arms she still feels small. 

 

"Hi mum," says Sansa softly. She wonders when Catelyn last slept.

 

"I've been worried sick about you, you know. Robb told me about your adventures in the Forest. A _chimaera_ , Sansa, really!"

 

Sansa smiles. "You can't say you didn't know what you were getting into when you married a Stark."

 

Catelyn sighs and rolls her eyes, before releasing Sansa and making her way to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee. Arya arrives, and Catelyn hugs her despite her protests. 

 

They sit down together at the table, sipping their coffee. "Any progress, Mum?" Sansa asks.

 

Catelyn taps her fingers on the table in frustration. "I know the documents put forth as evidence are fake. I don't believe for a second that your father was at that vault in Gringotts. The problem is I can't _prove_  any of it. I've spoken to the witnesses, I've even spoken to the clerk who reported the inconsistencies in the books. The thing is - I don't think any of them are lying. They think they're telling the truth."

 

"So someone is obviously pulling their strings. Someone could have impersonated Dad with Polyjuice and entered Gringotts. But not many people would have access to the Wizengamot's ledgers..."

 

"Mmmm. So we're dealing with one of the Great Houses. Which means that I've hit a wall."

 

Arya gets up and throws her cup in the sink with a bit too much force. "If only I knew who to kill."

 

" _Arya!"_ Catelyn says, scandalized. Last summer, Sansa probably would have echoed her mother's sentiment. 

 

_But it's been a hard year, and I sort of feel like killing someone too._

The doorbell rings, and Catelyn gets up to answer. Sansa hears her exclaim "Petyr!" and exchanges a disdainful look with Arya. Peter Baelish, better known (although not to his face) as Littlefinger, is a longtime friend of their mother's and a total creep. He lives in King's Landing, since he works at the Ministry and sits on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. That means they don't have to see him often, but when they do they have to endure his smarmy nature and his obvious coveting of their mother. _Blergh._

Littlefinger enters the room and smiles his oily smile at the two girls. "Arya, Sansa! It's been too long. Sansa, you look more like your mother every day." Sansa shudders.

 

"Nice beard," Arya says dryly. Sansa hides a smile. 

 

"Petyr's been helping me with my investigation, such as it is," Catelyn says, giving her daughters a look that says _behave_. 

 

Littlefinger takes a seat at the table and smiles self-deprecatingly. "I'm helping with what little I can. And of course, I'm happy to keep your mother company while she's in the capital."

 

_How does she not see it?_   Sansa exchanges a look of utter disbelief with Arya behind the adults' backs. _How does Mum not see how gross this guy is? He's probably happy Dad is in prison!_

_Wait._

"We should head out," Sansa says, grabbing Arya's hand. "I promised Arya we'd go see the dragon skulls in the Red Keep. We'll see you for dinner, mum. Bye, Mr. Baelish."

 

Sansa doesn't miss Littlefinger's annoyance at being called "mister." He technically carries the hereditary title of a small holding, but since those titles barely matter anymore, no one really bothers with them except for as terms of honour for people like her father. Widely respected people. People with a legacy. 

 

_Not scummy little social climbers who have never been honest a day in their lives._

When they're safely out the door and crossing the park, Arya says, "So, we're not actually going to look at dragon skulls."

 

"No. I just wanted to get the hells out of there. Listen, do you think Littlefinger is obsessed enough with mum to get dad put in prison and out of the way?"

 

Arya stops in her tracks. "And he's 'helping mum with her investigation,' but is actually making sure she doesn't get anywhere with it? Or keeping tabs on her to see how it's coming along?"

 

"Right. The thing is, he's pretty small potatoes. I honestly don't think he has the clout to be able to pull something like this off. Maybe he has nothing to do with it and is just taking this opportunity to hang around mum."

 

"You don't think mum would..."

 

" _Gross_. No. But I think she has a major blind spot when it comes to him. Seriously, how can she not see how _slimy_  he is?"

 

They end up at a Dornish restaurant, and spend most of the meal in silence, lost in their own thoughts. 

 

"I thought all this would be easier with mum on side," Sansa says finally. "But it's not. We can't trust her with anything with Littlefinger involved, no matter what his motives are. And she won't believe that there's any actual reason for concern if we warn her about him - she knows how much we dislike him already. So it's down to us. We have to figure it out."

 

Arya smiles ruefully and raises her glass. "Us against the world."

 

The sisters toast.

 

* * *

 

Margaery is deliberately _not_  pacing as she waits by the massive hearth in the gatehouse. She is standing calmly, waiting for Sansa Stark to arrive. _On second thought, maybe standing looks too impatient._ She arranges herself in an armchair across the room, crossing her legs then uncrossing them, then settling for throwing her arm across the back of the chair and slouching a bit. _There. A perfectly curated first look for the object of my desire._

 

The flames turn green and Margaery is on her feet before Sansa even properly steps into the room.

 

"Hi," she breathes as she flings her arms around the other girl's neck. She'll never get tired of tangling her hands in Sansa's hair.

 

_So much for being cool._

 

Sansa bends to kiss her, and Margaery melts a little against the taller girl. It's only been a few days since their kiss on the platform, but it feels like it's been _years._

"Come on," Margaery says, taking Sansa's hand excitedly. She leads her out of the gatehouse to where an Abraxan-drawn carriage is waiting. She hops in and offers Sansa a hand up. The sunlight glints off of Sansa's hair and makes her eyes seem the brightest blue. 

 

"This whole place is like a fairy tale," Sansa says, admiring the view of the magnificent castle. Margaery whistles and the horses start down the road past the first set of walls. Sansa gasps as they take off, and Margaery slides an arm around her shoulders as they fly over the briar maze that takes up most of the ring between the first and second walls. 

 

"The maze used to be to slow down invaders," she explains, "although these days the wards mostly accomplish that. It changes all the time, so even though I've lived here my whole life, there's no guarantee I'd be able to find my way through."

 

"Sounds risky," Sansa says. "Will you take me?"

 

"You're not afraid of getting lost and being stranded?"

 

"I'm sure we could find a way to amuse ourselves," says Sansa, looking at Margaery through her lashes. 

 

_Sins of the Maiden._ I'm _the one who's supposed to be a master of seduction!_

Sansa leans into Margaery as they fly over the second wall and touch down again on the road. They're making their way through one of the many orchards, and the air is heavy with the smell of summer fruit. Margaery stops the carriage and she and Sansa clamber down. Margaery leads the way through the dense foliage.

 

"I have something to show you, darling."

 

They emerge into a clearing and Margaery hears Sansa gasp behind her. In front of them is large clear pool, and across it are three weirwood trees that have grown together into one massive one. 

 

"The Three Singers," Margaery says softly. The white trees with their weeping red faces have always unsettled her a bit. They seem a little out of place here in the lush gardens of the south, and it's been a long time since anyone in her family has worshiped the old gods. 

 

But there's nothing but awe on Sansa's face as she crosses the shallow pool, heedless of her clothes, and lays her hands on the tree. 

 

Margaery takes the opportunity to observe the other girl unnoticed. It reminds her of when she'd watch Sansa from across the classroom in Ancient Runes, before they were friends. If Margaery could draw, she would be able to draw that version of Sansa from memory - chin in her hand, red hair flung over her shoulder, head slightly tilted, ankles crossed under her chair. That feeling of want coupled with the anticipation of learning what this intriguing girl was all about. And now, well, she's seen Sansa in action so many times by this point - making daring Quidditch plays, in animated conversation with Arya, running and fighting as a _wolf_  - and she's glad for it, because it's helped her _know_  Sansa so much better.

 

And yet.

 

There is something about Sansa in stillness. A feeling of potential energy, coiled and ready, but effortlessly reined in by Sansa's calm confidence. Margaery finds that the sense of anticipation, of standing on a precipice, is undiminished by having uncovered Sansa's mysteries. The desire to discover who the other girl is has been replaced by the equally exciting prospect of what they can discover together. 

 

Sansa joins her again, and cups her cheek before kissing her gently. Margaery puts her arms around Sansa and lays her head on her shoulder. She doesn't know how long they stand there, just breathing together.

 

* * *

 

They enter the Hall of Highgarden and Margaery is charmed by Sansa's exclamations over its beauty, despite living in a castle herself.

 

"I love Winterfell but it's very sort of... 'let's hunker down for winter," you know? There's so much light here! And there are plants _everywhere_!"

 

Margaery tries to look at her home with Sansa's eyes. Here, safely behind two sets of walls, the main keep is largely open to the elements. Sunlight streams in through floor to ceiling windows, and in many places there's no barrier to the outside garden at all. They turn left from the main corridor and are immediately on a terrace looking down on the small vineyard that her father putters around in (and that gardeners do the real work on). 

 

As though she'd planned it, Margaery's grandmother is drinking wine on that very terrace. _Well. At least she and Sansa have already met._

"Sit down, sit down," says Olenna, indicating the two seats beside her where there are already table settings.

 

_Alright. She definitely planned it._

"Hello, Olenna," says Sansa with a smile, thankfully not put off. Margaery's a little bit thrown at how easily Sansa uses her grandmother's first name, but if they've been talking business all year she figures Olenna would have used her acid tongue to discourage any use of "Lady Tyrell" by now.

 

"Looks like you were ready for us," Margaery says wryly. 

 

"I'm always ready for company," Olenna lies easily, pouring wine for both of them. "Lemon cake, Sansa? I remember how well you like them."

 

Sansa is already biting into one when Olenna attacks. "We've been business partners for some time, but now I must ask - what are your intentions with my granddaughter?"

 

Sansa almost chokes, but swallows with difficulty. "Grandmother!" Margaery scolds.

 

"No, no, it's fine," Sansa rasps, recovering slightly. "To marry straight out of school and produce heirs to our Great Houses, of course."

 

Olenna laughs long and loud. Margaery consciously fights down a blush. _I'm meant to be the smooth, witty one. Get it together, Margaery._

Sansa grins at Margaery over her wine and Margaery smirks back. It's a relief to be dating one of the few people Olenna Tyrell actually seems to like, if a little surreal.

 

They chat easily about trade policies and practical aspects of running Winterfell. "I'm honestly surprised you've managed to make any headway among those sexist pigs who call themselves lords up there," Olenna says derisively. 

 

"I've been sort of picking up where my Aunt Lyanna left off in terms of getting them to respect female leadership. But it was definitely hard, especially at the start," Sansa admits. "There are still those like Roose Bolten who will never really accept my direction. But there are more of them like Lord Umber, who will go to bat for me against anyone now."

 

"The Greatjon? How did you manage to get that great lunk on your side?"

 

Sansa grins, but then looks at Margaery sideways. "I uh. I blew off two of his fingers."

 

Margaery spits her wine back into her glass. "You _what?_ "

 

"He was going on and on about how if I wanted his respect I needed to give him all the soldiers currently stationed at Greywater Watch so he could lead an expedition against the mountain giants - as though the Reeds don't have more need of them to keep the yetis at bay. Anyway, he went so far as to draw his wand to make a point, which is absolutely forbidden in our Great Hall. So I... disarmed him. And now we're friends."

 

Olenna snorts into her glass. "Sometimes you have to speak the only language these idiots understand."

 

"Exactly," Sansa says, still looking at Margaery a little nervously. 

 

Olenna excuses herself to get ready for dinner, and Margaery takes Sansa's hand in hers. "I'm surprised, honestly, but it's okay. I know what you've had to deal with, and I know that Northmen are sort of... a different breed."

 

Sansa looks down at her glass and swirls the remains of her wine around. "It's not that," she says quietly. She looks up to meet Margaery's eyes. "I didn't blow off his fingers. I transformed and I _bit_ them off."

 

Margaery stares at her, wide eyed. "You... you _bit off_  a man's fingers?"

 

Sansa nods miserably. "Everything was so fucked up. My mom and Robb were in King's Landing and Jon was helping with a resurgence of wights at the Wall. It was the middle of winter, when monsters are the worst up North, and all the Lords were demanding resources to hold their territory. Roose Bolton was making a bid for power. I felt like everything was falling apart. I knew I could be a strong leader if I could just get them to _listen_  to me. And then the Greatjon drew his wand and it was almost a blessing, you know? Because it was a breach of conduct I couldn't ignore, and it forced me into action. Even though that action was something I regret."

 

Margaery nods slowly, a little bit queasy but approaching understanding. _You know this. You know that the wolf is an inextricable part of her. You can't love her without loving that part too._

"You need to know, though," Sansa says fiercely, "I don't regret it because it was... too wild, or inhuman. That's who and what I am. I regret it because... because I don't _want_ to have to speak that kind of language to get through to people, just because that's they way they've been wired for generations." She gets up and begins to pace around the terrace, tapping her fingers impatiently along the wrought iron railing as she goes. "I ran into Daenerys in King's Landing. And I can't get our conversation out of my head. How are we supposed to transcend the mistakes of our parents if we just repeat the same patterns? I don't want my daughters to have to commit an act of violence to gain respect."

 

Margaery tosses back the remains of her wine and stands up. "Exactly. _Exactly_. We replaced Aerys Targaryen with Robert Baratheon, and what do we have to show for it? Aerys was mad, there's no denying that - he needed to go. But Robert is drunk on power - "

 

" - and drunk in general," Sansa cuts in.

 

" - right, right! And he doesn't give a fuck about anything other than enjoying the trappings of his privilege."

 

Sansa leans over the table across from Margaery, still standing, eyes intense. "We keep doing the exact same things, just throwing different people into these positions of power -"

  
" - and stupidly expecting that it'll make a difference even though the entire system is broken," Margaery finishes, mirroring Sansa's posture. The two girls stare at each other, breathing heavily, and all Margaery can think is that she's finally met her match.

 

"Is this how lesbians have sex?" Loras inquires casually as he and Renly make their way up from the garden. "Looks pretty hot and heavy out here."

 

Sansa blushes furiously and Margaery levels a glare at her brother. She's about to make a comment about being passionate about more than just Quidditch, but bites her tongue just in time. Their grandmother hasn't been making it easy on him, and Margaery doesn't want to add to that.

 

"Hi Sansa," Renly cuts in smoothly, stepping in for a hug. "Highgarden is pretty amazing isn't it? Especially the first time you see it."

 

The tension thus broken, the four of them settle into conversation. It's not long, though, before the topic moves to Ned Stark. 

 

"So. There are inconsistencies in the Wizengamot records that indicate that your father was withdrawing funds. And he had a vault at Gringotts separate from your family accounts that he was allegedly dumping these extra funds into - a vault that a number of witnesses saw him access on August 15th last year? And all the witnesses are dead ends?" Renly sums up.

 

Sansa sighs and nods. "It has to be someone with a lot of power. But we don't even know where to look, not without knowing who had a motive to have my dad put away. There's always tension between Great Houses - but I feel like this had to be something specific, to be so sudden and so damning." Margaery is grateful that neither Loras nor Renly question Ned Stark's innocence. "If only I could _talk_ to him," Sansa says in frustration.

 

"It's too bad you don't have anyone else you could visit in Azkaban without suspicion," Margaery muses. "That would get you in, and then maybe you could find a way to talk to him."

 

Sansa pauses mid-sip. "Huh."

 

"Huh what?" Margaery says. "You have someone on the inside?"

 

"I just might."

 


	2. Stone in My Heart

Margaery leans on the parapet, staring listlessly down at the Winterfell soldiers drilling. Any other time, she'd find being at Winterfell fascinating. Beyond being the place Sansa grew up, which would be enough to interest her on its own, the North seems like a completely different world. The persistent chill in the air. The huge tracts of land between settlements, populated by creatures great and small. 

 

The thing most jarring though, is the atmosphere. The aura. In Highgarden, magic is everywhere, currents of it flowing lazily through the air. But it's not like this. In the North the still air is charged with it, in a way that makes it feel close but also... dangerous. Like one spark could set off something wild and uncontrollable.

 

Maybe she could identify more with it if Sansa were here, guiding her through it. But now the strangeness of it just adds to her discomfort, the worry bordering on terror gnawing at her belly. 

 

Margaery had been almost disappointed when Renly had produced the permit for Catelyn Stark to visit her sister Lysa Arryn in Azkaban, signed by the Minister Robert Baratheon himself (definitely while he was in his cups). It meant that Sansa would go ahead with her dangerous mission. A solo mission.

 

Sansa is as prepared as she can be. Margaery had brewed the Polyjuice potion herself, painstakingly over the last month, hyper aware that any small mistake would reduce its potency and give Sansa less time before she changed back to herself. Mikken had crafted a wand without the Trace for Sansa to take along for her father, something he could use to escape if they couldn't exonerate him. Margaery feels better knowing that Sansa will be armed. 

 

Theon and Sansa had left that morning. Anyone going to Azkaban sails there by way of Pike, as the Ironborn are the only sailors accomplished enough to get through the storms that never let up around the island. They'll sail on Asha's ship to get there, and Theon assures Margaery that Asha and her crew are among the best.

 

It's not the voyage there that worries Margaery most, though. It's the idea of Sansa in Azkaban, alone. Risking discovery, or worse.

 

"Brooding doesn't suit you, little rose."

 

Margaery whirls around, heart racing. Behind her is a ghost, a woman just a few years older than her with long, dark hair and grey eyes. The ghost joins her at the parapet, leaning over and watching the soldiers drill. Arya is there, leaping into cover and hitting moving targets from behind it. _She looks just like Arya_ , Margaery realizes.

 

"I always loved flowers in life. I didn't realize how far my niece's love would surpass my own," the ghost smirks.

 

Margaery feels her face heat despite herself. "You're Lyanna Stark."

 

"In the flesh," Lyanna grins sardonically. The resemblance to Arya is truly uncanny.

 

"I've heard a lot about you," says Margaery, for the life of her not sure why she's making polite small talk. 

 

"Oh, I'm sure. Heard about how Robert and Rhaegar both desired me for themselves, and one of them died for it. They loved me, the idea of me - how wild I was, and how bold. But make no mistake, little rose. Men like that don't want you once they have you. They don't like the iron underneath." Lyanna rolls her eyes and continues bitterly. "Become a woman that powerful men covet, and then you too can be remembered for what you meant to them and for nothing else."

 

"I was thinking of how you gained the respect of the Northern Lords with your skill in battle, actually," Margaery says. "Sansa has been talking to me about it. She's had prove herself a lot this year, and she says you paved the way for her a bit. Even though it still took her biting off the Greatjon's fingers to really seal it."

 

Lyanna laughs long and loud. "My sweet little Sansa, biting a man's fingers off? Truly, I didn't know she had it in her. The wolf blood comes out in all of us eventually, I suppose."

 

"Didn't you see it happen, though? If you haunt Winterfell?" Margaery asks. Lyanna's face grows solemn.

 

"I don't haunt Winterfell. My spirit is tied to Ned's. I'll be with him until he can forgive himself and let me go." Lyanna sighs. "I usually have the power to wander a bit, but my capacity diminishes as Ned's does, and Azkaban has not been kind to him. But your Sansa is there right now, so he's had enough of an upswing for me to come check on things here."

 

Margaery shifts uncomfortably. "I'm sorry Jon isn't here. He's with Robb doing a tour of the North, checking in on all of the keeps."

 

"It's alright. He's doing what he needs to do. The living have less time on their hands than the dead do."

 

Margaery looks at her out of the corner of her eye and a chill goes through her, sharp and sudden. _What would it be like to die so young? For your life to be cut short with so much ahead of you?_

 

"I try not to hang around too much, anyway," Lyanna says. "Ned needs to be able to let go. And Jon deserves to have a life where he isn't constantly reminded of the circumstances around his birth. I think he understands. We have a good chat whenever he's home for the holidays, but I'm not around all the time. Chatting with you is nice, to be honest. Having a conversation without worrying about strengthening a spiritual tether or giving some poor family member a complex."

 

"It's too bad you weren't around when Sansa was doing so much on her own last year," Margaery muses. "She would have appreciated the perspective of another woman who's had to fight for respect. She talked to my grandmother quite a bit, but the North is... different."

 

"A whole different level of sexism, you mean?" Lyanna laughs. "I wish I had been here, too. I didn't expect Sansa to be the one holding the North together, but maybe I should have. She has a different kind of steel, that one. Doesn't make her any less strong."

 

Margaery smiles, before the fear that's been dogging her catches up again. "She'll have to be strong, to get in and out of Azkaban alright. I know she's brave, and competent - I just hate that she's in there _alone_ , with no one to help her."

 

Lyanna puts her hand over Margaery's sympathetically. It's like shoving her hand in ice water, but Margaery appreciates the gesture nonetheless. "I know what it's like to be separated from the pack. I feel for her."

 

"How did you get through it?" Margaery asks desperately. Lyanna is already beginning to fade.

 

"I didn't."

 

* * *

Sansa stands on the bow of the ship, staring out into the mist. In just a short time, she'll be walking into Azkaban. Aunt Lysa's been there for some three years for murdering her husband. _Sending Robert to foster at Winterfell was apparently a crime worth being killed for._ Robert, or Robin, did indeed end up living with them in Winterfell for a year before returning to the Vale, but they never visited Aunt Lysa during that time. Sansa's mother had decided it would be best for the boy not to set foot in the wizard prison.

 

The mists have been impenetrable, but all at once the black walls of Azkaban start to take shape before her, the single spire emerging from the sea like the grasping arm of some malevolent beast. _Or maybe,_ Sansa thinks, _the arm of the Drowned God_. Rain hammers on the deck and the wind picks up as they sail through the storm. Lighting strikes ahead of them, but there's nothing to illuminate. The island is a vortex, an abyss.

 

She and Theon board the rowboat. They make their way to the shore in silence. Two Aurors wait on the dock, shivering in the driving rain. Theon leaps out of the boat and helps Sansa up, giving her hand a squeeze as he does. 

 

"Catelyn Stark to see Lysa Arryn," Theon says brusquely with a kind of Pike roughness that Sansa knows is pure affectation. Sansa keeps her back straight and her chin lifted a bit, the way her mother does when she's dealing with something she considers beneath her. _Not one of mum's best qualities._

 

"Alright, Ironborn, we've got it from here. Be back in two hours - not a moment later, you hear? We're not about to stand out here waiting for you."

 

Theon leaves without a backward glance, and Sansa allows herself to be led into the fortress of Azkaban. 

 

She wipes her feet courteously upon entering the cold foyer, then wonders why she bothered. It's lit only by a few torches in sconces. There's a small table in the middle of the room with an abandoned game of Gobstones on it. All told, it's a miserable place. She knows that the Dementors are usually the sole guards of the prison, and that these Aurors have been brought in to guard _her_ \- not for protection, but to make sure she doesn't do anything she shouldn't. She doesn't blame them for being unhappy about it. 

 

"We'll have to search you now, Lady Stark," one of them says. Sansa nods in what she hopes is an imperious way and not a terrified one. The Auror mutters a spell and waves his arm up and down some distance from her body. The lack of a Trace on the wand should make it undetectable, but this is the moment of truth.

 

_I guess if I get arrested at least I'm already in the right place..._

 

"Alright," he says, satisfied. "We're not about to go up with you. Above our pay grade, that is. This one'll escort you."

 

Sansa's breath of relief dies in her throat as the Dementor glides into the room. It's three metres of pure distilled terror, its face shrouded by the hood of its frayed cloak. Its mere presence causes the temperature to drop noticeably. Suddenly all Sansa can think of is the day they took her father away, Joffrey grabbing her wrist hard enough to bruise, the smell of Margaery's blood...

 

_Margaery._ Sansa takes a deep breath and latches onto the positive thought, just like she's been practicing. Flowers, wine on the terrace, studying in their courtyard. Margaery's smirky half smile, her laugh.

 

Sansa looks over to the Aurors, who are both grimacing and pale. The taller one looks at her guiltily. But he doesn't offer to go with her, which she has to remind herself is a good thing.

 

Sansa glances at her mother's watch. "So. I should be back here by four o'clock?"

 

"Yes, ma'am. The Dementor will escort you back. We'll be here."

 

The Dementor moves soundlessly out of the room, and Sansa follows, fighting the urge to flee. They climb nine flights of stairs - at least, Sansa climbs. She doesn't know how to describe the way the Dementor traverses the stairway. There are no windows, not even here, and it's eerily silent, even though Sansa knows that thunder is booming and waves are crashing right outside.

 

They walk down a long corridor with cells on either side. About half of them are full. Sansa tries not to look at the figures sitting in the shadows of the small rooms. It's harder to ignore the ones that are writhing and wailing and throwing themselves at the bars. They finally stop outside the cell that belongs to her aunt.

 

Aunt Lysa is huddled in the corner of her cell, her matted red hair so long that it sweeps the floor where she sits, knees tucked to her chest. Azkaban has made her thin and drawn. Once she and Sansa might have resembled each other; but now her cheeks are wasted and her eyes bright with madness, staring at nothing. Sansa shudders. Lysa has only been in here for a few years - how long before Sansa's father also succumbs to the demons in his mind?

 

The Dementor that escorted Sansa moves back to the end of the corridor, resuming its normal patrol. Sansa waits for it to disappear around the corner and inhales sharply, trying to get a sense of where her father is. 

 

Sansa's breath catches in her throat as her Aunt Lysa's head turns sharply toward her, the rest of her body remaining still. Her eyes find Sansa's - Catelyn's - face.

 

" _Sister_ ," Lysa hisses. "You dare show your face in my house?"

 

Sansa looks around the dank cell block. The stone walls and the iron bars are the kind of grey that makes the colour drain out of the world. There is a persistent dripping noise coming from down the hall.

 

"He betrayed me. _Me_ , who loved him best!"

 

Sansa cringes. _And then you killed him._

 

"And you got the spoils! But he is _mine_ Catelyn, and _I will have him._ "

 

"Your son is back in the Vale, Lysa," Sansa says in her mother's most soothing tone. "He'll even attend Hogwarts next year."

 

But Lysa is already gone, her chin resting on her chest.

 

* * *

Bran wheels over to the base of the great weirwood tree in the Godswood, feeling a bit useless. He would feel better if he could keep an eye on Sansa, but he can only see the present by warging into animals. He had followed Sansa as a raven for a while, but then the storm got too severe for him to navigate. Now she's in Azkaban, a place even he can't follow.

 

So Bran puts his hand on the heart tree like he has at every opportunity this past year, and looks into his father's past, searching for any clue that will help him now.

 

Ned kneels by the heart tree with a young Sansa. _Probably because I've been thinking about her._  Sansa is weaving a crown out of blood red weirwood leaves.

 

"There's no Godswood at Hogwarts, little wolf. The Forbidden Forest will have to be your Godswood."

 

Sansa looks up at him, tears in her eyes. She had always been scared of the heart tree, Bran remembers her telling him, preferring their mother's sept. But the more time she spent as wolf, the more her connection to the woods and the North had strengthened. As excited as she had been to go south to Hogwarts, she had been filled with fear at leaving her home.

 

Ned puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Wherever there is life, the old gods are there. You can never be truly alone." He takes the leaf crown from her and places it on her head.

 

"It'll be okay, Sansa," Bran says, knowing his sister can't hear him, in the past or in the present.

 

Sansa looks up as a gentle wind ruffles her hair, frowning. Then she leans into her father and lays her hand on the heart tree.

 

* * *

Sansa pads down the long corridor, following the faint smell of her father. She cautiously moves up a couple of floors, waiting until the Dementors are at the opposite ends of the corridor to pass by. She gets to the end and there he is.

 

A massive direwolf lays in the last cell, head between his paws. Her father is bigger and more grizzled than any of the rest of them, all sinew and scars. Sansa has watched him take down yetis and giants, has seen blood dripping off his mouthful of fangs. But there's no fear in her when she sees him - just a crushing relief and desperate longing.

 

"Dad," she whispers. Ned's ears perk up, and he crosses his cell in a couple strides. His transformation is slow and painful, and Sansa averts her eyes. When she looks back, he is wearing his blanket and staring at her in wonder.

 

"Sansa," he says, his voice rough from disuse. He reaches for her between the bars, and she grabs his hands. It takes everything she has not to break down sobbing.

 

"Sorry I'm not mum," Sansa says, at a loss for anything more intelligent to say. Her father wheezes, and it takes a moment for Sansa to realize that he's chuckling.

 

"Does your mother know that you're impersonating her?" Sansa shifts uncomfortably. "Nevermind. You're here now. Is everyone alright?"

 

"Yeah, dad. Everyone is fine except you. I have to be quick. You have to tell me what happened. Who wanted you in here? I found the book in your study - _Lineages and Histories_. What did you find out?"

 

Ned sighs. "I wish I didn't have to burden you with this." Sansa squeezes his hands.

 

"I was clearing out Jon Arryn's home office. There was a file from Misuse of Muggle Artifacts that I needed - took a couple of years as Deputy Minister for me to realize that it wasn't in the office, which tells you how important it was. But anyway. I went to the Vale and was looking for it when I found  _Lineages and Histories_ and a bunch of notes Jon had written in it. Clever of you to notice it on my shelf." 

 

_Now's probably not the time to tell him that Margaery Tyrell used that same book to discover that we're all skinchangers and that now I'm dating her._

 

Ned shivers and continues. "I discovered that Robert Baratheon has a number of illegitimate children - not a surprise really. But they provide a pool of subjects for comparison... and they're all black of hair. All of them. Gendry Waters, Mya Stone, Edric Storm... no matter who the mothers are, fair or dark, the children all favour Robert."

 

Sansa's mind whirls with the knowledge that Gendry and Mya are actually Robert's children. _Mya has been my friend for five years._ But then she realizes the implication of what her father is saying.

 

"Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen aren't Robert's." 

 

Ned sighs and nods. "But it's worse than that. Jon Arryn did some digging. Cersei didn't have children with just anyone."

 

Sansa watches as her father seems to age ten years in an instant.

 

"Their father is Jaime Lannister."

 

Shock makes Sansa release her grip on Ned for a moment. "They... but they..."

 

"They're twins, yes. Brother and sister."

 

"So they found out and had you framed to keep you quiet," Sansa says, blood boiling. "How did they find out?"

 

"Cersei found out. She found out because I told her," Ned sighs.

 

_What in the Seven Hells?_

 

"I was afraid of what Robert would do to Cersei and the children if he found out. Jon was connecting the dots, but he can't have been the only one. I wanted to warn Cersei. Robert is... not a good man. Maybe he never was."

 

_That's Dad. Too noble by half, always._  But then Sansa thinks of sweet Myrcella, who had been so kind to her when she and Joffrey had been dating, and gentle Tommen with his kittens.  _I'd want to protect them, too. But how could he trust Cersei?_

 

"I shouldn't have trusted Cersei. But I wanted to give her a chance to divorce Robert and take the children somewhere safe. Out of the country, maybe. She wouldn't hear of it. Just a few days later, I was arrested."

 

"So if anyone has proof of your innocence, it'll be her."

 

"Yes," Ned says. "But Sansa, _be careful._ Tell your mother what I've told you."

 

Sansa hesitates. _Should I tell him how much time she's been spending with Littlefinger?_ But then she sees the dark circles around her father's eyes, his lank hair and long beard. Ned Stark is barely holding on. "Okay, Dad," she says.

 

Then she remembers the wand. She gets it from her inside pocket and hands it to him. "Mikken made this. Just in case... I don't know. Just in case everything goes wrong, and you need to defend yourself." Her dad takes the wand silently. Neither of them mention the other reason the wand might be necessary. That anything would be better than a Dementor's kiss. Sansa feels her eyes well up despite herself.

 

"Tell me about the family," her father pleads, breaking the dreadful silence. So Sansa does. She tells him about Robb, Jon, and Theon winning the Quidditch Cup, and about their current tour of the North to help with monsters, which Robb has been calling "Creature Control." Arya has been following in their Aunt Lyanna's footsteps as a dueling champion, and is taking extra lessons with Professor Forel. Bran is excelling at his studies, as usual, and is keeping up his experimentation during the summer months if the explosions coming from his room are anything to go by. Sansa can't help but grin as she describes Rickon's puppy energy and how excited he is to go to Hogwarts this year.

 

"And what about you?" Ned asks, astute as ever. He knows that Sansa is wont to put herself last, especially if something is wrong.

 

"I'm okay, Dad," Sansa says. "I've been working hard."

 

"I know," Ned says softly. "My little wolf." Sansa swallows hard.

 

"Dad, I - " But she can't finish her thought.

 

Because it's four o'clock, and a Dementor is flying down the hall toward them.

 

* * *

The scene shifts before Bran's eyes. His father is on his knees in front of the heart tree, weeping over a casket. Bran recognizes his Aunt Lyanna's body, although she looks infinitely more peaceful and demure in death than the ghost who always has something to say. 

 

"I'm sorry," Ned is saying. His chest is heaving with sobs. 

 

Bran watches, transfixed, as Aunt Lyanna's spirit emerges from the woods. Bran feels like she should be ethereal, floating, but instead she is stalking towards her brother with all the weight and energy of a living human. 

 

"You have to stop it, Ned," she says, none too gently.

 

Ned looks up, startled. "Lyanna," he says, his voice hoarse. "Are you... are you here because I couldn't protect you?"

 

Lyanna sighs. "No, Ned. I'm here because you can't stop thinking about how you should have protected me."

 

Ned looks down at his sister's body and closes his eyes. 

 

"No, Ned. Look at me! I'm _here_. I'm here and I'm telling you what I want. Just like I told you to take care of Jon. Just like I told you to take a hike when you didn't want me to start leading soldiers on missions. Just like I told you that I'd rather sleep on broken glass than be engaged to Robert Baratheon. I am my own person and can make my own decisions. If one of those decisions ended in tragedy, well, that's not your fault."

 

Ned leaps to his feet, angry in a way Bran has never seen his normally composed father. "You don't get to tell me how to feel! You're dead, and I'm still here, and I have to _live_ with that!"

 

Lyanna slaps him. Her hand goes right through his head. "So. Do. I. Except I don't even get to be living."

 

Ned sinks back down to the forest floor, all the energy leaving him.

 

"I'm sorry, Lya. I'm - I'll try. You and Brandon are dead. Benjen is beyond the wall. So much of it feels like my fault."

 

Lyanna sits next to her brother and puts her translucent arm around him. "You can't protect everyone, Ned. And you have to let me go, sometime. Your grief can't keep you company forever."

 

Bran watches as his father cries like a child, and wonders helplessly what Ned thinks about in Azkaban.

 

* * *

The Dementor has to fold itself nearly in half, contorting grotesquely to get its face near Sansa's. She's frozen to the spot, unable to flee, unable to fight. The Dementor lets its hood fall back, and its scabbed eye sockets and gaping mouth are enough to make Sansa shake uncontrollably in terror. She can feel despair overtaking her, a cold, seeping dread more intense than anything she's ever known.

 

That empty face is inching closer and closer to Sansa, the Dementor reveling in her fear. It's taking up almost her entire vision it's so close, and Sansa has the sensation of falling, falling... She can hear her father saying " _Expecto Patronum_ ," over and over, but nothing is happening.

 

"SANSA!" Her father's voice yanks her back into herself like he's pulling her up from deep water. He thrusts the wand into her hand and she moves on instinct.

 

_Platform 9 3/4. My siblings all around me. Margaery - being in her arms, her kiss, her eyes. The smell of the forest all around us. The Forbidden Forest. The orchard at Highgarden._

 

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " A silver wolf leaps out of her wand at the Dementor, bowling it over. It slithers backwards down the corridor, like it's body is made of so many snakes. The wolf stalks forward, bristling, until the Dementor has poured itself down the stairs, before turning and trotting back to Sansa. 

 

Sansa turns to her father and hands him back the wand. His eyes are desperate and ashamed. "You have to go now, Sansa."

 

She can hear the clatter of the guards running up the stairs. 

 

"I love you, dad." She clutches his fingers desperately through the bars. 

 

The guards are getting closer. She leaps down the two flights of stairs and bolts quickly back to the vicinity of her Aunt Lysa's cell. She gets there an instant before the men do.

 

"What was that noise?" The Auror demands. "One of the Dementors left its post. What's going on?"

 

Sansa draws herself up and channels every bit of highborn lady she has in her. "I could ask you the _exact same thing_. That - that  _thing_  accosted me! And where in the name of the Seven were you while it was happening? Are you not here to be my protection?"

 

The Aurors look at each other, gobsmacked. They aren't, actually. But the force of Sansa Stark channeling her mother is enough to make them believe they are, if only for a moment. 

 

"I could have had my very _soul_ sucked out of me!" Sansa continues, striding down the hallway and leaving the Aurors to catch up to her. "Can you imagine? That scabby creature almost _laid its hands_ on me!" 

 

The Aurors scramble after her, following her down the stairs. The sheer need for survival is propelling her, despite her mounting horror at what her father had told her and what had almost befallen her. Theon is already there, his face ashen. Seeing him almost undoes her, but Sansa keeps it together long enough to bluster her way out of there and onto the boat that will take them to Asha's ship. 

 

She makes it all the way to Asha's cabin belowdecks before she collapses into Theon's arms, wracking sobs coming from somewhere deep within her.

 

* * *

 

Margaery, Arya, Bran, and Rickon wait in the Great Hall of Winterfell nervously. Sansa and Theon should be Portkeying back from Pike any moment now. _Unless something's gone terribly wrong_ , Margaery thinks. Arya puts a reassuring hand on her knee. 

 

There's a rush of air, and Theon appears with Sansa in his arms. She's limp, her head lolling against Theon's left arm. Margaery doesn't realize that she's on her feet until she's right beside them. Sansa's face is devoid of colour, her lips almost blue.

 

"She had a close encounter with a Dementor. It didn't get her, but she's in rough shape," Theon says.

 

"Let's get her to her bedroom," Margaery says, voice shaking. "Arya, you have the hot chocolate ready in the kitchen?" Arya nods and races off. 

 

Margaery follows as Theon carries Sansa up to her room. She almost suggests that he levitate her to save his energy, but Theon is cradling Sansa against his chest like she's something precious he doesn't dare break. Margaery stays quiet. 

 

Rickon and Bran race ahead, and when Theon and Margaery arrive in the bedroom they've made a nest out of pillows and blankets for Sansa. They rest her upright just as Arya arrives with hot chocolate and an armful of Honeydukes' finest. 

 

"Sansa," Margaery says softly, laying her hand on the other girl's cheek. "Sansa, you have to wake up, at least for a bit. Get some chocolate in you."

 

Sansa's eyes flutter, but don't open. Margaery's fear is clawing from her stomach to her chest to her throat.

 

"Let me," Arya says, pushing her aside. "Sans. Wake up!" She slaps Sansa lightly on the face - but not as lightly as she might have. Sansa comes to with a start. Theon is there with a cup of hot chocolate, pressing it to her lips. She drinks without complaint.

 

"Sorry," Sansa mutters. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you, Theon." 

 

Theon presses some chocolate into her hands. "It's alright, Sans. You deserve a long rest, I think."

 

Sansa nods, exhausted, and moves so she's laying down. She brushes her fingers against Margaery's cheek, and then she's dead to the world again. 

 

Once Rickon has been persuaded to go to bed, Theon fills them in. Margaery feels like her mind should be racing with all the consequences and implications of what they've just learned, but she can't stop thinking about Sansa. She excuses herself from the Hall and finds her way back to the girl's bedroom. 

 

Sansa is still asleep, her long hair half covering her face. Margaery slips under the covers beside her and wraps her arms around her, feeling the need to reassure herself that Sansa is _here_ and safe. She buries her head in the juncture between Sansa's neck and shoulder, and lays there breathing in the scent of her skin until Sansa begins to stir.

 

"Margaery?" She says, her voice little more than a whisper. Her blue eyes open wide, and Margaery can see the residual pain and terror in them. She slides up so that she can take Sansa in her arms.  

 

"I'm here, darling. I'm here." Margaery becomes aware that Sansa is crying softly into her chest, and she allows herself to think about how close she came to losing her. Margaery feels her own eyes well up. _A Dementor's kiss. A fate worse than death._

 

At length, Sansa pulls away so that she can look Margaery in the eyes. "There was a moment when I didn't think I'd ever see you again." Margaery tightens her hold around her. "And... I still don't know if I'll ever see my dad again." Sansa closes her eyes as her tears continue to fall. 

 

"It was terrible, Marge. You can't understand. It's like every bit of happiness you've ever known is being siphoned off. Everyone in there is mad or close to madness. And my dad has been there for _a year_." Sansa scrubs at her eyes roughly. "And if the worst happens? He'll lose everything about him that makes him who he is." Sansa's face takes on an expression of distant horror, and Margaery thinks she must be remembering the face of the Dementor that had been so close to taking her soul. 

 

They sit in silence for a long time, Margaery stroking Sansa's hair. Sansa takes a bracing breath and changes the subject to stop from spiralling into horror. "So. How have you enjoyed Winterfell while I've been gone?"

 

"It's um... it's been alright," Margaery says, trying to be diplomatic. Sansa looks at her sideways, raising an eyebrow. "I missed you. And I think the circumstances being what they were, being somewhere unfamiliar was hard. I met your Aunt, though. She was cool."

 

Sansa brightens. "Aunt Lyanna? I miss her. Oh! That gives me an idea!" Sansa throws back the covers despite Margaery's protests and tosses her a sweater from her closet. "Come on. A Southern girl like you needs an easier introduction to the North, I think."

 

Sansa leads her through the dark stone corridors of Winterfell. Tapestries chronicling the legends of the Kings of Winter lead them to a part of the castle Margaery hasn't been to yet. "Just a quick nip out into the cold," Sansa says over her shoulder cheekily as she opens the door ahead of them. Margaery shivers as she follows Sansa across a narrow footbridge and back inside. Sansa hangs her sweater up in the small anteroom and Margaery does the same. They step through a heavy door and Margaery gasps.

 

They're in Winterfell's legendary glass gardens. Flowers proliferate, and orbs emitting a soft glow float along the winding stone path that takes them further in. Margaery looks up. It's like there's no barrier between them and the night sky. 

 

Sansa is smiling at her softly. Margaery takes her proffered hand and they walk along the path. She marvels at plants that normally won't grow outside the Reach, but are flourishing here. As they get further along, the temperature drops, and Sansa puts an arm around her to keep her warm. _Did she plan this when she had us take off our sweaters?_ Margaery doesn't mind.

 

"Okay," Sansa says. "Close your eyes." Giggling, Margaery does as she's told. She lets Sansa lead her onwards. "Alright, you can open them."

 

Margaery opens her eyes to see that they're surrounded by bushes of icy blue winter roses. Margaery has never seen them before - they only grow in the North despite the Tyrells' best efforts. Sansa grins at her, and snips one of the blooms off.

 

"I thought you might like them," she says, smiling at Margaery over the rose she's dethorning. 

 

"They're beautiful," Margaery breathes, entranced by the pale blue that darkens at it reaches the tips of the petals. She leans closer to one and sniffs. It's a more subtle scent than most of the varieties she's familiar with.

 

Sansa holds out the rose she picked to Margaery. "For you, Lady Margaery," she says with a smirk. Margaery takes it, but holds Sansa's hand where it is. She leans around the flower to kiss Sansa deeply, and decides that she's fond of Northern blooms. She pulls Sansa flush against her and runs her hands up and down her sides lightly, before pulling back and resting her forehead against Sansa's.

 

"I was afraid I'd lost you," Margaery says, finally allowing Sansa to see how scared she had been. 

 

"I was afraid I'd lost me, too," Sansa admits. 

 

"I don't want to do this again," Margaery says, grasping Sansa's hands tightly. "This thing where one of us goes off into danger and one of us is left behind. I can't. I cant," she finishes, her voice breaking.

 

Sansa holds her tightly in her arms. "I agree. I can't imagine what that must have been like." 

 

"Let's promise each other, okay? That we face things together from now on," Margaery pleads.

 

"I promise," Sansa says seriously, brushing a lock of Margaery's hair back. "And you?"

 

"I promise."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! You can catch me on tumblr as matryyoshkka. I'm excited to know how you feel about this latest chapter!


	3. Hard Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, just a quick little CW for a brief mention of domestic abuse in this chapter, in the second to last scene. Robert Baratheon is mentioned, so, you know. Thanks for reading!

It seems like the entire population of Wizarding Westeros has gathered north of White Harbour to watch the Quidditch World Cup - not to mention all the Braavosi who have made the trip to support their team. Loras passes a witch keeping up her section of the massive Disillusionment charm around the stadium and the grounds where people are camping. She does a double take when she sees him and he gives her a charming smile. _It's always nice to be appreciated._ He preens a little, then yelps as his grandmother hits him in the bum with her walking stick.

 

"If you're going to flutter your eyelashes at someone, flutter them at that waiter and get me a glass of Dornish Red," Olenna says. 

 

Loras shrugs and makes his way over to the booths where food and drink are being served. _Not like we have bottle service in our box or anything, Grandmother._

 

He returns with it and offers Olenna both the glass and his arm. They stroll through the encampment of tents towards the stadium, the field a riot of colours and textures. Loras feels the buzz of excitement starting to hit him, the energy around them positively electric.

 

"Look at that ridiculous tent," Olenna says. "I've never seen so many colours clashing at once. Utterly tasteless."

 

"Right? I didn't realize we were here to watch a _circus_. I saw one back there with scarlet and turquoise stripes. Can you believe?" Loras shudders.

 

"And the way some people are dressed!  _Must_  you show your passion for your team by getting your friends together and collectively painting the name on your naked chests?"

 

"And if you really must, you should do it in uppercase letters. That man with the "l" on his chest just looks like he missed his mouth when he was drinking." 

 

Olenna snorts. "Are you sure it wasn't Robert Baratheon?"

 

"Oh, you are _bad_ , Grandmother."

 

The two of them arrive at the stadium and start climbing up the stairs to the box the Tyrells have reserved. Loras is bouncing with excitement. Lyn Corbray and Bellenora Otherys are the two best Seekers in the world, and Loras can't wait to see them in action. He models a lot of his aggressive play on Otherys, who is always about an inch away from an interference penalty. 

 

"So you think you'll be here playing someday, Loras?" 

 

"I know I will," Loras says confidently. _What I'm less certain of is whether you and I can get through a conversation about Quidditch without losing our tempers._

 

Olenna sighs heavily. Fortunately, they arrive at the box in that moment, where Willas and Garlan are already handing out cocktails. Renly is there, sipping a drink and watching the teams warm up. Loras's parents have made themselves comfortable on loungers, and Garlan's wife Leonette is earnestly talking to Alerie about the state of the international dueling league now that Jaime Lannister can no longer compete. Their cousins Eleanor, Megga, and Alla are there, as well as other assorted Tyrell and Hightower relations. 

 

"Where's your sister?" Olenna asks, her keen eye scanning the crowd. 

 

"She's with the Starks in their box," Loras lies blithely. _And Sansa has told her mother that she's in the Tyrell box. What they're both actually doing is breaking into the Red Keep._ Somehow Loras doesn't think that explanation will fly with his grandmother.

 

"Margaery's quite serious about this girl, isn't she?" Olenna muses. 

 

"Head over heels," Loras confirms. "I'm glad they're at least together now. You wouldn't believe how pathetically she was mooning over Sansa all year."

 

Olenna harrumphs disdainfully. "Well, at least she has good taste. I hope they don't distract each other from matters of importance, though."

 

Loras snorts and lets his younger cousins greet Olenna, extricating himself from the gaggle of teenage girls to stand next to Renly. He leans over the balcony and searches the pitch until he spots Lyn Corbray doing a series of sprints and quick direction changes on the Vale's side. 

 

"He's very fast," says Renly, giving Loras's hand a squeeze and smiling hello. Loras grins back before quickly directing his attention to the players again.

 

"He's very good. Very, very good. But he doesn't contribute to his team's success in the same way Otherys does. She's much more involved with the actual gameplay. So it'll just sort of depend how things play out. If the Snitch appears early, that's advantageous for the Vale, because they can make use of Corbray's star power and hope for a quick win. But the longer it goes on, the longer Braavos has to wear them down with their superior team coordination..."

 

Renly stares fondly at Loras as he continues his in-depth analysis, patiently listening even though he's heard variations on this same monologue many times since the semi-finals. Loras stops mid-sentence and drops Renly's hand abruptly when Renly's brother Stannis appears on his other side, as drab in dress and manner as Renly is flamboyant.

 

"Hello Loras. Renly, I haven't even seen you yet today. Did you come up to our box at all?" 

 

"I was there earlier, Stannis. I thought maybe the company here would be... more positive." 

 

Renly had only checked in on the Minister's party to make sure that all of the Lannisters and Baratheons were accounted for, Loras knew, before beating a hasty retreat to the Tyrells. _So Sansa and Margaery should be in the clear._

 

"Well, you've left me without anyone with even a modicum of sense for company. Cersei and Robert seem to be competing to see who can get drunk the fastest, and the game hasn't even started yet." Renly and Stannis share a grimace, and Loras smiles. For all that Renly and Stannis are night and day, Stannis had stepped in to raise Renly when their parents had died, and the two are close, after a fashion. Loras likes it when they get along. "I'd have Davos, normally, but they won't break bread with anyone so... common. He's in the stands with Shireen and his son Devan."

 

Stannis grinds his teeth, and Loras knows that by "they" he mostly means the Lannisters and not Robert. _But Robert doesn't say anything about it. He'd rather be left in peace to drink and watch sports than stand up for anything._

 

"Well, that's ridiculous. He must come watch with us," Renly says, before stealing a glance at Loras. Stannis looks a bit perplexed at what gives Renly the authority to make such an offer on behalf of the Tyrells.

 

"Absolutely," Loras says genuinely. "And Devan and Shireen, too. We Tyrells are a bunch of new money pretenders anyway, so a little common blood doesn't matter to us."

 

Stannis's lips turn up in what may actually be a smile. 

 

"He misses you, you know," Loras says when Stannis leaves to collect his friend. Renly smiles sadly and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

 

"He wouldn't understand."

 

* * *

 

"I don't know if I would have done this for you if I'd known you were bringing a Tyrell along," Arianne says, giving Margaery the side-eye. 

 

"If I'd known a _Martell_  was your way in, I might not have been on board with this plan," says Margaery coolly. 

 

"And if I'd known I'd be in the middle of a ridiculous family grudge based on an incident between Willas and Oberyn that _they themselves_ resolved roughly a decade ago, I would have left you _both_  behind," Sansa hisses. Margaery and Arianne's mouths both snap shut and Arianne opens the Vanishing Cabinet without further comment.

 

"I can't believe your dad actually thinks this is Trystane's wardrobe," Sansa says. The cabinet is huge and dark with detailed lions' heads carved in relief on the doors. It's in start contrast to the rest of the very Teenage Boy decor.

 

"I'm pretty sure dad has avoided coming up here since Trystane hit puberty, to be honest." Margaery and Arianne both snort, then look at each other and scowl.

 

Sansa rolls her eyes at them. "Thanks for doing this, Arianne."

 

"I'm only doing it because you promised me you'd keep Myrcella out of it," Arianne says seriously, grabbing Sansa's wrist before she can enter the cabinet. "She might be the only one in that gods forsaken family worth knowing. And Tommen, I guess."

 

"I know," Sansa says. "Trust me, I know." Sansa thinks of all the dinners at the Baratheons' she suffered through where Myrcella was the only redeeming part of it.

 

Sansa follows Margaery through the cabinet and finds herself in Myrcella's bedroom at the Red Keep, where the Minister's family traditionally lives. There are bookshelves lining one whole wall, befitting a Ravenclaw, and Sansa recognizes her own copies of The Three Musketeers and The Stranger.

 

Margaery is tapping the side of the cabinet thoughtfully. "You know, we should get ourselves a pair of these. Being able to instantly be in each other's bedrooms would be... convenient."

 

Sansa raises an eyebrow, but her eyes are smiling. "Is that all you think about, _Tyrell?_ "

 

Margaery saunters closer and runs her fingertips along the hem of Sansa's shirt, smirking.

 

"I uh, don't want to take the wind out of your sails, but we're under the same roof where Joffrey tried to feel me up on the regular."

 

"Oh, _gross_ ," Margaery says, swiftly withdrawing her hands. 

 

"It wasn't all bad. One time I conjured a bag of ice cubes into his underwear." Sansa leads the way into the hall. "The Baratheons keep their rooms in the east wing, and Cersei has her own solar. Let's check there first."

 

They walk quietly down the sandstone halls. Even with all the natural light coming through the windows, the Keep still feels imposing and not quite comfortable on the inside. Sansa pulls them into an alcove when a housekeeper passes by and grins down at Margaery. _I bet she's thinking about our almost-kiss in the broom cupboard, too._

 

"Uh uh. No way. You don't get to indulge in tender remembrances after that total mood-killer back there," Margaery huffs. 

 

They continue on and climb the staircase to a bright room with an open air balcony. There's a large teak desk in the centre of the room, and an uncomfortable-looking divan across from it. There are several bottles of Arbor Gold chilling in a bath of ice that's been enchanted to always be cold. Margaery walks over and whistles.

 

"Say what you want about Cersei - the woman knows how to treat herself."

 

Sansa moves on to the desk. She waves her wand to determine that there aren't any traps. There's a menu Cersei's been editing for the Ministry's Summer Ball on the desk (next to shrimp cocktail Cersei has written " _pedestrian - no_ " in her bold hand) and a number of receipts for charitable donations. Sansa starts going through the drawers while Margaery attacks the filing cabinet by the door.

 

"What in the _hells_  are you two doing here?"

 

Sansa whirls. Myrcella is standing in the doorway, looking every inch the daughter of Cersei Lannister.

 

"I can explain, Myrcella. I'm sorry for... breaking into your home. Honestly, you know I wouldn't do it unless I had a very good reason -"

 

"Then start explaining, Sansa."

 

"I'm trying to get my dad out of Azkaban. He didn't embezzle those funds from the Wizengamot. He was framed, because he found out someone's secret. You're mother's secret."

 

"What could your dad possibly have on my mother that would make her want to get him thrown in Azkaban?" Myrcella demands, arms crossed.

 

Sansa's heart sinks. The last thing that she wants out of all this is to hurt Myrcella. _But can she really avoid this secret? Jon Arryn figured it out. Dad figured it out. It's only a matter of time before someone exposes their parentage._

 

Sansa turns to Margaery. "Margaery, do you want to give us a second?"

 

Margaery isn't happy about it, but she leaves. Protective as she is, she of all people can recognize a delicate situation.

 

Myrcella hasn't taken her eyes off Sansa. Sansa sighs and leads her to the divan. It's an uncomfortable as it looks. _Cersei probably has guests sit here when she wants them in the hot seat._

 

Sansa forces herself to look Myrcella in the eye. Her friend is holding her gaze, but she's nervously fiddling with the fringe of her Vale scarf.

 

_I don't want to do this_ , Sansa thinks. She remembers countless Stark-Baratheon dinners, always made awkward by Robert's drunken aggressiveness and Cersei's icy disdain. Sansa and Myrcella had always found refuge in each other's bedrooms, sharing a love of reading and a need for escape. When Sansa and Joffrey were dating, Myrcella had rescued Sansa a number of times from Joffrey's handsyness by barging in at strategic times. And when Sansa broke things off, Myrcella had sent her a box of Honeydukes chocolate with a card that said "congratulations on improving your taste." They don't hang out much at Hogwarts, but Myrcella is still one of Sansa's oldest and most steadfast friends.

 

_And now I have to tear her whole life apart._

 

Sansa takes a deep breath. "My dad found some stuff in Jon Arryn's office. About your father's... affairs. About the children he's had with various women."

 

"If your big secret is that my father is a pig, you've just wasted everyone's time."

 

"It got Jon to thinking. So he did some digging. And all of Robert's other children are dark of hair like him."

 

Myrcella exhales slowly. "So. The implication is that my father is not my father."

 

Sansa nods slowly. "They um. They tracked down the Baratheon family tapestry. And um. You're not on it. Or Joffrey, or Tommen."

 

Myrcella looks past Sansa at nothing in particular. "That tapestry was lost years ago. Or, well. I guess it was 'lost' deliberately. Father always blamed Mother. I guess he was right after all."

 

"My dad told your mother because he was afraid of what Robert would do to her if he found out. And... what he would do to you and your siblings."

 

"He's not going to be up for any Dad of Year awards any time soon."

 

"I'm sorry, Cella."

 

Myrcella scrubs her hands over her face. They sit in silence for a few minutes.

 

"Do you know who my father is?" She finally asks.

 

Sansa nods, tongue-tied.

 

Myrcella regards her steadily. "You don't want to tell me." Sansa puts her palms over her eyes. Myrcella gets up and offers Sansa a hand. "I'll spare you that, then. I can find out myself. Now come on. Your dad shouldn't be in prison for finding out my family's dirty laundry, and mostly by accident at that."

 

Margaery and Sansa follow Myrcella to Robert's home office. It's obviously little-used, which makes sense given that he works just over in another wing of the Keep. Myrcella rummages through the drawers until there's a small click.

 

"False bottom," she explains. "If my mother wanted to hide something, she wouldn't hid it in her own office."

 

Myrcella pulls out a ledger first, all the entries written in Cersei's hand. It only takes a glance to determine that it's for the account that Ned Stark had been allegedly transferring funds to. Myrcella gingerly pulls out a vial as well - there are a few strands of hair inside, and one sniff tells Sansa that it's her father's. 

 

"I'm sorry," Myrcella says. Despite her own misfortune, she's sincere. "Your dad has been in Azkaban for a year. And all he was really trying to do was protect us."

 

"It's not your fault," Sansa says truthfully, though her hands are shaking with fury now that the evidence is right in front of her. 

 

"Now for the hard part," Margaery interjects smoothly, grabbing Sansa's hand comfortingly. "Renly says that evidence obtained illegally - say, by breaking and entering - isn't admissable. So what's our play?"

 

"I'll take care of it," Myrcella says. "It's the least I can do. You tip off the Aurors and I'll make sure they find this."

 

Margaery looks doubtful but Sansa squeezes her hand warningly. "Alright. Thanks, Cella. I don't think they'll be hard on your mother, honestly - she's the Minister's wife. They'll probably just put her under house arrest for a while or something." 

 

Myrcella nods a bit vacantly, running a hand through her hair. "House arrest might be for the best, honestly. I feel like she owes me a number of explanations - and she won't be able to avoid me."

 

"Are you coming? We might still be able to catch the start of the game."

 

Myrcella smiles tightly. "No, I think I have a few things to look into while everyone's out of the house. I'll see you at school, yeah?"

 

Sansa and Margaery portkey back to the World Cup grounds. They can hear the roar from the stadium as the teams enter. Before she can say anything, Margaery has wrapped her in a tight hug. Sansa closes her eyes and tries to make the rest of the world disappear. 

 

* * *

 

Loras has his omnioculars glued to the action when Margaery appears beside him. Otherys is disrupting the sightlines of the beaters while simultaneously faking out Corbray, so it doesn't surprise her that it takes him a few seconds to acknowledge her. 

 

"How'd it go?" He asks, not taking his eyes off the action. _How_ did _it go?_ Margery thinks. _It was a bit of clusterfuck. But what I'm most worried about is how upset Sansa is._  Margaery sighs.

 

"Good? I think? I will... tentatively call it a success. How's the game going?"

 

"It's early, yet. But so far Otherys has come out the gate _hard_ and Corbray hasn't had a chance to strut his stuff yet."

 

The Braavosi Chasers are putting the pressure on the Vale, but the Vale's defense is starting out surprisingly strong. Margaery pulls out her own omnioculars and watches for a while. Loras puts an arm around her. 

 

Sansa arrives after a while from the Stark box, her brother Rickon and another child in tow. 

 

"No climbing the balcony. No making improvised weapons out of team banners. No pretending to be wild animals. Did I cover... _most_ of the stuff you got into while I was gone?"

 

Sansa runs a hand through her hair and joins Margaery, Renly and Loras at the balcony. Margaery hooks a finger through Sansa's belt loop. 

 

"Who's the girl?"

 

" _Ugh._ Lyanna Mormont. She and Rickon are absolute terrors together. I told Robb that I'd take them off his hands for a little while."

 

Margaery hesitates. _No. No way._  "Mormont. From... Bear island? There isn't anything to the old stories, is there? About...?"

 

Sansa arches an eyebrow. "Why do you think she and Rickon are such nightmares?"

 

Margaery pales.

 

They return their attention to the game. Braavos has a narrow lead with 210 points to the Vale's 180. Lyn Corbray has fallen victim to a feint by Otherys that sent him straight into a hoop, and his face is still smeared with blood. 

 

"Corbray's not having a great game, hey?"

 

Loras sighs. "No. He looked good in warm ups, but now he's hesitating at every turn. I don't know. Maybe he's past his prime. _Ow!_ "

 

"Keep your ageism to yourself!" Olenna calls from across the box. She levitates her walking stick back to herself. 

 

Margaery hates to admit it, but Loras might be right. Corbray's head isn't in the game. 

 

Sansa wanders off to chat with Olenna while keeping half an eye on Rickon and Lyanna, who seem to be in the process of aggressively befriending Shireen Baratheon. Margaery smirks as she watches Sansa throw her long hair over her shoulder and laugh at something Olenna says. Her expression turns hard as she notices Willas watching as well. She grabs his chin to turn his head so he's facing the game and brings her face close to his ear, squeezing his cheeks together for good measure.

 

"One: she's sixteen. Two: she's my girlfriend. Keep your eyes on the pitch, brother."

 

Willas looks at her like she's severely unhinged and points wordlessly over Sansa's shoulder, where Mace and Garlan are drunkenly building a miniature Highgarden out of a combination of canapes and celery sticks. Margaery brings her omnioculars back to her eyes and resumes watching the game like nothing happened. 

 

The Braavosis have pulled ahead, and if Corbray doesn't catch the Snitch soon, he'll have to try to keep Otherys from catching it while the Vale's Chasers catch up. Margaery has barely finished the thought before Otherys and Corbray start racing in the same direction with purpose. 

 

"I see it!" Loras says excitedly. "Come on, Otherys!"

 

Corbray has pulled ahead, his superior agility serving him in good stead as the Snitch zips around. One of his teammates shouts a warning, and Margaery sees it at the same time Corbray does - both Bludgers are headed toward him at speed, and the Snitch shows no sign of changing course. _If Corbray doesn't pull up, he's done for._

 

But Corbray doesn't pull up. The entire crowd is on their feet as his hands close around the Snitch - just as the two Bludgers smash into him from both sides.

 

Margaery winces, even as everyone in the stadium starts cheering wildly. Corbray is weaving dangerously on his broom, but through her omnioculars Margaery can see that the Snitch is still, miraculously, clutched in the hand at the end of his limp right arm. 

 

Loras curses viciously beside her, but even he can't deny Corbray's incredible self-sacrifice. The mood is merry all the way down to where the Tyrells and Hightowers have their tents set up. Margaery is pleased to see that the Starks are right beside them as well - Robb gives her a wink as he intercepts Rickon and Lyanna and reclaims his charges. 

 

As much as Margaery loves Quidditch, her favourite part of the World Cup might be the after party. The grounds are teeming with people in good cheer - even the Braavosi seem to be taking their team's loss well. Vendors are serving all manner of street foods and the wine is flowing freely. When night falls, ten minutes can't go by without someone sending up fireworks, the displays ranging from magnificent to crude. 

 

Margaery is sprawled out on Sansa's lap under a canopy, making conversation with Robb and Theon while Sansa idly braids her hair. Margaery's half-blood cousin Garrett is attempting to teach Arya and Bran how to play billiards a few feet away. Renly and Loras have taken Rickon, Lyanna, and Shireen under their wing and seem to be playing a particularly pyrotechnic game of Exploding Snap. Even Sansa seems to have calmed down somewhat from her traumatizing conversation with Myrcella. In the warm glow of the torches, with the stars not so very far away, everything feels warm and hazy and perfect. 

 

"Margaery Tyrell."

 

Margaery pulls her eyes away from Sansa, at whom she's been gazing adoringly, and meets the steely countenance of Catelyn Stark.

 

"Lady Stark! Hello!" Margaery scrambles out of Sansa's lap, half falling off the couch in the process. When she finally gets to her feet, Sansa's mother is staring at her in mild amusement.

 

"You know, Sansa led me to believe that you're a good deal smoother than this," she observes wryly.

 

Margaery tries to think of a response and fails, unable to process that Sansa's mother has just caught her trying to crawl into her daughter's skin. 

 

"Leave her alone, Mum," Sansa says in exasperation. "She just gets nervous sometimes."

 

Margaery snaps her gaze over to Sansa. "I - _what?_ I do not get - _nervous_ , I'm in perfect control of my composure! At all times!"

 

"Clearly," Sansa and her mother say in unison with a third voice. Margaery looks over to see a smirking Arya salute her with her pool cue. 

 

_The nerve,_ Margaery thinks. _The absolute_ nerve  _of these Stark women._

 

* * *

 

"You're sure he won't mind us just showing up?" Loras asks as he and Robb push their way through the labyrinth of tents and booths. He ducks to avoid an errant fire-eater's belch of flames, and Robb sticks his kebab in it. They walk on past acrobats and jugglers, and a table where a group of Northmen have challenged a group of Braavosi to a drinking contest. Robb happily munches his food and answers Loras through a mouthful of charred meat.

 

"My cousin is the Lord of the Vale. Robin said it would be cool to show up to the team afterparty."

 

Loras snags a balloon animal from a vendor and flicks him a sickle. The inflated blue dragon flies in circles around his head.

 

"You going to be lonely without us next year?" Robb asks. Loras, as the only Gryffindor boy in his year (compared to a whopping nine girls) has always shared a dormitory with Robb, Jon, and Theon. 

 

"They'll probably throw me in with the sixth years now that you've graduated," Loras replies, not looking forward to it. _Edwyd Fossoway is a tool._

 

"Ugh. Edwyd Fossoway is a tool," Robb says. 

 

They come up on the enclosed area where the Vale's team and their assorted support staff are celebrating. Robb asks the guard to bring Robin, who will vouch for them.

 

"They don't know me by sight," Robb explains. "Sansa spent some time in the Vale as a kid, before my mum and my Aunt Lysa fell out, but I've only been there once or twice."

 

Robin Arryn appears at the side of Vardis Egen, the captain of the guards at the Eyrie. He runs up and embraces Robb immediately. 

 

"Robb! We won! Did you see Corbray catch the snitch? Wasn't it amazing?"

 

Robb lifts his young cousin and spins him around. "It was one of the best catches I've ever seen. You must be proud!"

 

Robin grins and leads them in, chattering all the while. _I remember when that kid was a total nightmare,_ Loras thinks. _But I guess a year or two in Winterfell did him good._

 

They congratulate the players, and Loras tries not to be too star struck. Lyn Corbray is nowhere to be seen, though.

 

"I think Lyn is in the medical tent again," Robin says. "He's really hurt. We can check on him, though."

 

"I don't know, maybe he doesn't want to be disturbed - " ventures Loras. But Robin is already bounding to the other end of the camp. Robb and Loras exchange a shrug and follow, the sounds of the party fading behind them.

 

" - I can't, alright? This is my _career_. My whole life is at stake!"

 

Robb and Loras slow as they hear the argument from inside the tent, but Robin, oblivious, continues on. 

 

"Robin!" Robb calls, catching up to his cousin just as he reaches the tent's entrance. There's the pop of apparition from inside, just as the three of them stumble in. Lyn Corbray is reclining on a cot, naked from the chest up - if wearing nothing but a mountain of bandages counts as naked. His long brown hair is a mess, and there's anger simmering in his dark eyes.

 

"I'm so sorry," Loras says. "We didn't mean to interrupt. Youthful enthusiasm and all that." He tousles Robin's hair for good measure.

 

The anger is gone from Corbray's eyes so fast Loras would wonder if it had even been there, had the image of Corbray's searing and terrifying gaze not been imprinted in his memory. 

 

"No, no - no trouble at all. Just dealing with doctors, you know. You both look like Quidditch players. I'm sure you understand the... friction when a medic wants you to rest and you just want to get on with it." 

 

_Lyn Corbray thinks I look like a Quidditch player,_ Loras thinks, pleased. He's not Otherys, but it's still pretty amazing to sit and chat with the Seeker who just won the World Cup. Half an hour passes as Corbray regales them with stories from his long career. Loras is in stitches over a particularly ribald locker room anecdote when Robb checks his watch and declares that they should be back to their own section.

 

Corbray stops Loras on his way out the door. "You know, I cheated a bit when I said you looked like a Quidditch player. I know you are - and one of the best Seekers Hogwarts has seen in the past decade, at that. Keep working hard. There are a lot of people with their eyes on you, should you choose to play professionally."

 

Loras walks on air all the way back to his tent.

 

* * *

 

Myrcella pads down to the dungeons of Casterly Rock. She stops in the middle of the corridor once she's walked thirty-eight paces and puts a hand on the twelfth stone up on the wall to her right.

 

" _Hear me roar,_ " she says. The brick disappears and the gap left expands into a full archway. Torches light up as she enters, illuminating the only object in the room.

 

The Lannister tapestry.

 

Most family tapestries had been destroyed somewhere along the line - whether by lords wanting to cover up their many affairs or by a second son making a play for power, or any number of other reasons. Having an enchanted chart of everyone's position and indiscretions is, unsurprisingly, something many people aren't thrilled about. Everyone just assumes that the Lannister tapestry doesn't exist anymore. Even Myrcella probably isn't meant to know about it. _There are advantages to adults forgetting you're in the room half the time._

 

Myrcella walks towards it, her heart in her throat, hoping that her gut feeling is wrong.

 

_Am I really surprised to learn that Robert Baratheon isn't my father? No_ , she reflects. To blame her mother would be a ridiculous double standard. Not only because of her father's own affairs, but because of his treatment of her mother. Myrcella has watched her mother carefully apply a mixture of glamour charms and Muggle cosmetics to cover bruises too many times to have any illusions about _that. But I can't say I'm thrilled about my family being even more dysfunctional than I thought._

 

Myrcella scans the red and gold tapestry, putting off the inevitable by starting way too high. Tommen II, who ruled before the Targaryen conquest and never returned from his voyage to Valyria. Lelia, who had been queen of the Iron Islands for a time. Her great grandfather Tytos, the Laughing Lion. Finally, she gets to Tywin and Joanna. Myrcella's breath catches. 

 

There, under her grandparents' names, linked to both her mother and by a fine gold thread to her, Tommen, and Joffrey,

 

_Jaime Lannister._

 

Unbidden, a memory surfaces in Myrcella's mind. Just before she'd gone off to Hogwarts for her first year. She'd been up late in the night to get a glass of water, (she'd been plagued by nightmares ever since Joffrey had locked her in the corridor with the dragon skulls the week before) and her Uncle Jaime had come through into the kitchen, his shirt untucked, doing up his cuffs. He'd looked shocked to see her and had explained that he'd been working late on some things for the Casterly Rock estate with her mother. Myrcella had leaned into him and asked him to stay, not looking forward to making the dark trek up to her room alone. He'd kissed her on the forehead and left her, stepping through the hearth to his own house.

 

Myrcella sinks to the floor beneath the tapestry and begins to cry. 

 

* * *

 

Margaery awakens in her bedroom at Highgarden in a good mood. The World Cup had been exciting, but it's over now, and August is Margaery's favourite month. It means planning for the upcoming school year, organizing her schedule of classes and extra curriculars for optimal results. And with the Aurors obtaining the evidence to clear Ned Stark any day now ( _it's even possible they already have_ ), Margaery is looking forward to carving out a significant chunk of time to spend with a newly unburdened and very attractive girlfriend.

 

_Winning the Quidditch Cup would be quite a feather in my cap,_  Margaery muses as she sits at her vanity to brush out her hair. _They probably won't make me Captain_ and _Head Girl, which is a shame, but even just winning in my capacity as Seeker will be nice._

 

She heads down to breakfast. She can hear raised voices from the terrace, and quickens her step. Everyone in her family falls silent at her approach. Margaery looks at the shocked faces and feels her stomach twist.

 

Olenna throws _The Daily Prophet_ across the table at her.

 

"Robert Baratheon has just been arrested for framing Eddard Stark."

 

 

 


	4. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, CW for the second scene, which discusses domestic abuse and living with an alcoholic.

Lyanna watches her brother take his first steps out of Azkaban, smiles as he lifts his head to let the rain wash over his upturned face. There are tears there, too, with the rain. Asha Greyjoy waits patiently for him to master himself and board her vessel. He does so a bit shakily on his atrophied legs, and then Theon is there offering an arm. Ned accepts it after only a moment's hesitation, his shame at his weakness overcome by Theon's quiet pride at being able to help him. 

 

They go belowdecks. Theon has laid out a razer and a mirror and drawn a bath. He moves to leave, but Ned draws him into a fierce hug. Lyanna watches Theon stiffen, then relax into it. _He's never really felt like a proper son_ , Lyanna thinks. _But he should._ Theon retreats from the room to go help the crew, and Ned readies himself for his bath.

 

_Being trapped in your mind isn't great for anyone_ , Lyanna reflects as Ned scrubs a year of filth off his skin. _But especially not for someone like Ned._  Watching him suffer the deaths of their father and brother over and over was torturous. Watching him relive her own death, which he had been present for, even more so. 

 

Lyanna allows herself to feel the pain at her brother's suffering for the first time in many months. She'd had to become dispassionate, assume a sort of ghostly distance, for fear of being driven mad herself. _And the last thing Ned needs after a year in Azkaban is to haunted by the_ insane _spirit of his dead sister._ She looks at his spindly limbs, his haunted eyes. Ned, who had already known so much pain, and who had always done so much good, did not deserve to spend a year running in circles from his guilt. Lyanna feels a terrible anger rise up in her. The door rattles on its frame, and the soap falls from its dish at the edge of the bath.

 

Ned looks around. "Lyanna?" She makes herself visible, looking at him with chagrin. 

 

"I was just thinking about how glad I am to be out of there."

 

Ned smiles. The effect is skeletal. 

 

"If you could refrain from causing any tremors while I shave, I'd appreciate it."

 

"I guess it would spoil your homecoming a bit if you were released from Azkaban only to slice your own throat on the way home." Ned frowns at her macabre humour. "Maybe keep your beard a bit long. At least until you gain some weight."

 

Ned nods, looking at his sunken visage sourly. Lyanna floats over to him until their faces are side by side in the mirror. "Honestly, if I had to guess, I'd say you were the dead one." Ned splashes water at her. It goes right through.

 

They get to Pike and Ned sidealongs with Theon, too weak to apparate himself yet. As Theon drives them from Winter Town to the castle, Lyanna lets herself bask in the feeling of being home again. Sometimes she resents Winterfell, gets sick of being stuck there most of the time and unable to go where she pleases. But after spending a year in a dank, featureless cell watching her brother's guilt eat him alive, she feels like she'll never complain again.

 

They pass through the gates of the keep and Lyanna smiles as Ned's kids run towards him. Rickon almost knocks him over in his enthusiasm, and Robb isn't far behind. Lyanna is so busy watching that the weird feeling of someone making contact with her takes her by surprise. 

 

"Aunt Lyanna!" It's Arya, trying to hug her immaterial body and grinning up at her. "I missed you so much." Sansa is there, too, and soon all the other children are crowded around her as well. She tries not to be too pleased that they missed her too.

 

Jon lets his cousins get out of the way before he approaches her. "Hi mom," he says, smiling. Lyanna isn't sure if she still has a heart, but she feels it lurch. "I'm glad you're home."

 

_Home_ , Lyanna thinks, as she follows the excited gaggle of Starks up into the great hall. She sits next to her son and lets him regale her with tales of all the monsters he, Robb, and Theon have been corralling all around the North, his dark eyes shining. _There really is nothing of Rhaegar in him,_ she thinks. He is hers. He belongs to the North.

 

_It's good to be home._

 

* * *

 

They meet in the Water Gardens because it's neutral territory. The click of her sandals on the pink marble walkways is a familiar sound to Sansa, one that recalls a simpler time. _Was it only a year ago that Arianne and I chased Trystane and Aegon down this same path?_ The chase had ended in an ambush - Dany, Arya, and Elia Sand had been waiting in a stand of blood orange trees with buckets of water to soak the boys. _Myrcella wasn't there,_ Sansa recalls. _Although she was supposed to be._ You just got used to that kind of thing with Myrcella - something was always coming up. 

 

Myrcella is there now, though, waiting for her under a pergola lush with vines and flowers bursting out of hanging baskets. Her blonde curls have been gathered into a messy bun, but instead of playing with strands that have escaped like she normally does, her hands are clasped in front of her and she watches Sansa approach with a steady gaze. Sansa sits across from her at a stone table with a cyvasse board cut right into the surface and casts _Muffliato_ , just in case. 

 

"What the _hell_ , Myrcella? That's not what was supposed to happen! The Aurors - "

 

Myrcella holds up a had to silence her. Sansa, shocked, stops talking. She realizes, a bit guiltily, that she had expected Myrcella to shrink back against her accusatory tone. When she doesn't, it throws Sansa off.

 

"I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen," Myrcella says shakily, but with more determination the longer Sansa stays quiet. "You have your dad back, right? Everything feels good at home again? Back to normal? Nice and stable?" 

 

Sansa nods slowly. Myrcella leans across the table, green eyes flashing.

 

"Things _never_  feel that way for me, Sansa. My father is drunk all the time, constantly just a hair away from flipping a table or hitting my mother or yelling at us over something inconsquential. It's _better_ when he's gone without explanation to fuck the next in a line of women only a handful of years older than me. At least then we can have some godsdamned peace. And do you think being the most powerful man in the country makes him more accountable? Of course not. It means that everything gets swept under the rug, that the reality I live in effectively doesn't exist - because it's not allowed to."

 

"So this is about what? Revenge?" 

 

Myrcella surges to her feet, knocking her chair over. Sansa has never, ever, seen her very reserved friend behave this way. She unconsciously leans back in her seat, realizing that something has given way in Myrcella, that her carefully polished veneer of propriety has shattered from the pressure of everything that she's kept inside for so long.

 

"You really have no idea, Sansa. No fucking concept of what it's like for your home life to be about _survival_. My mother would end up in prison for framing your dad, make no mistake. My father would make sure of it. She's a piece of work. I know that. But she's the only barrier between us and the worst of our father. Take her away and things immediately get very, very bad for us, even without our parentage being exposed. But you don't understand that, because to you, your family and your home mean  _safety._ " Myrcella laughs mirthlessly. "Why do you think Joffrey was so horrible to you? He was learning how to be a man from our father."

 

Sansa flinches as though slapped, but Myrcella goes on. "You and your father can sit there with all your notions of fairness and justice and giving Robert the benefit of the doubt, with no _idea_ of the reality that I face every day. And your Tyrell girlfriend can look at the board and see the consequences of the Minister being in prison, but this isn't a _game_ to me Sansa - it's me trying to keep Tommen and myself alive and hopefully not any more fucked up than we are already. And it's a lot more prosaic than the desire for revenge you're imagining. My entire _life_  has been damage control. This is just my reaction to the most recent situation that threatens to upset the careful balance involved in surviving in Robert Baratheon's household. I approach it with the same attitude as I do taking the servants' staircase to my room when I see a bottle of Firewhiskey on the table, or changing the subject when dad starts telling Tommen to get rid of his kittens and be a man."

 

"Fuck... Cella, I'm sorry."

 

"I don't want you to be sorry," Myrcella says, still leaning over Sansa. "I want you to get off your _fucking_ high horse so we can have a proper discussion."

 

Sansa nods. 

 

It's a lot to take in all at once. Sansa tries to sort through her feelings as Myrcella gets up to fetch cold drinks. The Minister is wrongfully in prison. But the Minister is an abusive asshole whose very presence is a danger to one of her oldest friends. A friend who has been suffering so much more than Sansa knew, because she couldn't see past her own experience. _I couldn't see what was right in front of me because I was so dead set on my reality being supportive parents who do what's right, and siblings who never let the sun set on an argument._

 

_I was such a fucking child._

 

And then the anger comes. At herself. But also at her father. Her father, whose arms she had been weeping in just the day before. Who had made their family safe with his quiet strength.

 

But he had stayed silent during all those dinner parties where Robert had been disrespectful to Cersei, had done nothing more than politely change the subject when Robert had boasted of his latest conquest in front of everyone or talked openly about how much he would rather Lyanna had been his wife. Had pretended not to see Cersei's bruises - and Joffrey's, Sansa remembers, trying not to feel any sympathy for the asshole. And when Sansa's father found out a secret that would make Robert furious, his instinct had not been to finally confront Robert's abusive behaviour - but to tell his wife and her children to uproot their lives and leave.

 

_When your best friend is such a piece of shit that you're afraid he'll literally kill his family, shouldn't you stop supporting him? Especially when he's killed over jealousy before,_ Sansa thinks, shuddering. _Aunt Lyanna had barely ever given him the time of day and he killed Rhaegar over her._ _Isn't that enough to put him in Azkaban?_ No one had been killed in a duel in almost a hundred years before Robert killed Rhaegar, even though it was technically legal.  _Surely that's a sign that you shouldn't put much faith in his decision making or his moral courage._

 

Sansa's heart sinks. _And isn't it a sign that maybe you shouldn't try to arrange a marriage between your daughter and his son?_ She remembers vividly the look on her father's face when she had finally told him how Joffrey had treated her. Robb had been standing beside her with his hand on her shoulder, lending her his strength - but it had looked like her father was the one who had needed it. His voice had been shaky as he apologized, and when he looked at her she couldn't help but feel that he was looking at her Aunt Lyanna instead. Another woman he'd tried to push a Baratheon on. _But how many close calls do there need to be before he stops making the same mistakes?_

 

Myrcella returns with two bowls of ice cream and a jug of water. Sansa traces her finger over the condensation on her glass. 

 

"So our Ministry really is just... a bunch of old families protecting each other's interests and reputations."

 

"You're a smart girl, Sansa," Myrcella says, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "You already knew that. You knew that as soon as your dad got thrown in prison."

 

"And you've known it your whole life."

 

Myrcella shrugs. "It is what it is."

 

"So. Alright. We agree to lay aside the moral questionability of whether your dad should be in prison, and instead agree that he's an asshole." Myrcella tips her glass in Sansa's direction. "In the meantime, your mother still knows that my dad knows her secret, and my dad knows that it wasn't Robert who put him in prison. I haven't said anything to him - but you know he doesn't believe that his best friend sold him out."

 

Myrcella's expression softens a bit. "I didn't expect you to keep this a secret, you know. It was my burden to bear. I made sure that the evidence was airtight enough that it wouldn't matter."

 

"I wasn't about to spill anything until I spoke to you first. And I'm glad I didn't. But I am still... worried about the consequences. Especially your mother."

 

"Your father is pretty untouchable at the moment," Myrcella reflects, "given that everyone knows he unjustly spend a year in Azkaban. My father did a poor enough job as Minister that him embezzling funds to make up for his ostentatious personal spending is believable. So my mother would be an idiot to draw attention to the fact that Ned Stark knows something he shouldn't."

 

"Mmm. Have you spoken to her yet? Does she have a play in mind?" 

 

Myrcella sighs. "I thought that she might want to run away to Essos after all. But she's too obsessed with power. She thinks she can take on anyone else who wants to expose us." Myrcella leans back in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face. "She wants to run for Minister."

 

"She wants to run for Minister? With the threat of my dad?"

 

"What is your dad going to do anyway?" Myrcella asks, eyes sharp. "Is he going to go public?"

 

"No," Sansa says. "He knows he's stuck, unless he wants to put your whole family's lives in danger. Weirdly enough, now it's your father who's keeping you safe. The threat of what he would do once he got out of Azkaban is stopping my dad from saying anything. But I don't know. If your mother gains power out of this... my dad's scales of justice might tip the other way."

 

"So our two obstinate parents are now playing chicken with each other," Mycella sighs.

 

"Looks like it," Sansa says.

 

They're silent for a bit. Myrcella runs her spoon along the rim of her bowl, looking down at the table miserably.

 

"Can I ask you something?" Myrcella says suddenly.

 

"Of course," Sansa says, leaning across the table and putting her hand on Myrcella's. It wasn't long ago that they were yelling at each other, but they've always been in each other's corner. 

 

"Are you... disgusted? By me? By my uncle actually being... my father?" She whispers the last part, and Sansa's heart aches for her.

 

"No. Of course not, Cella. None of that... none of it is your fault. And anyway, I grew up with Daenerys. Her parents were siblings."

 

"But people still considered that pretty unacceptable. The only reason it was halfway alright was because it was shrugged off as a weird Targaryen thing. And beyond what people think, it's not... I mean, it's not exactly a good thing to have such a limited gene pool."

 

Sansa taps her finger against her temple. _Of all the tough conversations I thought I'd be having in my life, reassuring my best friend after finding out she's a product of incest wasn't one of them._

"But you're okay," Sansa insists. "And Dany's okay. I'm not, you know, endorsing it or anything, but I think you two have turned out fine. And look at you! Dating a boy from Dorne. Way to introduce some variety into the mix."

 

Myrcella stares at her. "Your way of reassuring me is... weird."

 

"I'm not great at it, am I," Sansa says, a little helplessly.

 

"Honestly? Your aggressively practical approach is actually calming me down a bit."

 

Sansa smiles. "Have you thought about what you're going to do? I mean... have you talked to your mother about it? Or... to your uncle?"

 

"No. Gods. My mother knows that I know that I'm not Robert's. That's all. I don't even know how to start that conversation."

 

Sansa finishes up the last of her ice cream, unsure of what to say. Myrcella speaks before she can, anyway. 

 

"I'll tell you one thing - I am _done_ being the quiet one that no one has to worry about."

 

* * *

 

"If only you were fifteen years older, Margaery," Olenna sighs, spreading tapenade on a slice of crusty white bread. They're sitting on the balcony adjoining Olenna's rooms, overlooking the briar maze. Olenna has declared the day too hot for wine and is instead quaffing mimosas and eating peaches straight from a tree that's growing out of an antique pot from Dorne. Margaery sips lemonade and listens to her grandmother rant.

 

"For the first time in almost two decades there's a power vacuum, and we aren't in a position to take advantage of it." Olenna finishes a peach and throws the pit over the railing. There's a yelp from below them and Margaery slides down in her chair. "Watch where you're going!" Olenna yells over the side. Margaery carefully moves the bottle of champagne out of arm's reach. 

 

Olenna's complaints about Willas and Garlan's lack of ambition are nothing new. Willas, at least, is saved some of her ire by being a worthy heir to the Tyrell apothecary empire - although, as Olenna never tires of reminding him, it would behoove him to do some networking instead of puttering around raising abraxan in his spare time. Willas hasn't been to King's Landing in years.

 

Garlan, however - "He has all the talents your father lacks, and no desire whatsoever for recognition or power. How in the Seven Hells he's part of my line I don't know. Must be your mother's lukewarm blood." Margaery doesn't bother defending her mother. It's not worth it. Especially since Olenna has caught onto Margaery's ploy and has snatched back the bottle of champagne.

 

Margaery opens her mouth to contribute, but Olenna continues monologuing. "I should have been prepared for this. It was only a matter of time before Robert Baratheon did something stupid enough to get punted out of office. And now every Great House in the realm is clawing for a foothold."

 

_She doesn't think Dad could hack it as Minister, even with her whispering in his ear._ Margaery tries to imagine her father as leader of Westeros. _Grandmother has a point,_ Margaery concludes.

 

"Well," Margaery says reasonably, "Dad's made enough of a career at the Ministry that he'd be a good candidate for Deputy Minister, especially with the weight of the Tyrell name. He can pave the way for... the next generation. Or me, if you'd rather be blunt. It's just a matter of hitching his wagon to the right horse."

 

Olenna smiles at her appreciatively. "At least _one_ of my grandchildren has brains and ambition."

 

Margaery doesn't say that Loras has ambition too - just that he directs it towards things Olenna doesn't think are important. He gets enough flack as it is. Instead she pokes at the ice cubes in her glass with her straw. 

 

"Grandmother?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Am I an idiot? For not realizing what a... domino effect helping free Sansa's dad would have?"

 

Olenna regards Margaery steadily over her champagne flute. "Sometimes, you have the game board laid out all in front of you. You've accounted for all the pieces, you know all the logical moves... and you forget that what you're actually dealing with are people. People who act out of emotion, out of fear. And then... all you can do is reset the board and put the pieces in their new positions, and make some new rules..."

 

Margaery's brow furrows. She slides the champagne bottle out of reach again, this time not trying to be subtle.

 

"Alright, alright, so it's not an amazing metaphor. What I'm trying to say, Margaery, is that the best laid plans fail. You never know what a person's breaking point is going to be. When a sweet, demure, picture-perfect daughter like Myrcella Baratheon is going to decide that she can't take it anymore, and make the boldest decision of her life. Even Sansa Stark couldn't see that, and she's known the girl since they were infants. Maybe she should have seen it coming - but you're both of you still young. All you can do is readjust and act on the new opportunities that have arisen."

 

"You don't think it's... wrong that these opportunities have arisen because a man has been wrongfully imprisoned?"

 

Olenna looks Margaery dead in the eyes. "Things have gotten better. So much better that I have a granddaughter who can dream of becoming Minister for Magic. But you're one of the lucky ones. Our fight is not over, Margaery. Many women are still in a position where they must make the best of their circumstances." Olenna looks out over the briar maze, her eyes distant. Then she snaps her gaze back to Margaery. "If I were in young Myrcella's position, I can't say I would have done anything differently."

 

Margaery breathes a sigh of relief. I've been feeling guilty about not feeling more guilty about all of this. What she does feel guilty about is not giving her grandmother the full details. Between Sansa's skinchanging and the Baratheon children's true parentage, she's keeping more secrets from her grandmother than she ever has.

 

_But Myrcella is going to have a hard enough time as it is without another Great House sitting on that information, just waiting for a chance to use it for leverage. Who knows how many people know at this point?_

 

_Not to mention that Sansa would never trust me again._

 

So Margaery pours herself another glass of lemonade and grins conspiratorially at her grandmother. "So. Which horse are we going to back in this race?"

 

* * *

 

Dany threads her way through the crowded alleys and bazaars of Sunspear. She supposes she should be used to the heat after living in the Free Cities most of her life, but there's something about the Dornish sun's intensity that makes her feel exposed. She wonders if the cobblestones have always been so red, or if they've baked that way from the sun. The smell of fruit wafts over to her across the hot, dry air, and she stops to buy a bag of ripe plums from a vendor. _Plums are Elia's favourite._

 

Elia doesn't live in the palace, choosing instead the independence of the town below. Dany's feet know their way to her house without thinking. She'd passed her apparition test the week before, but still chose to walk in from the city gates today. When she was a child, she would go over and over the route in her mind, searing it into her memory, just in case. _Just in case what?_ Dany thinks. _Just in case she doesn't have her hands full enough with her actual family?_

 

Dany makes her way up the date palm lined drive and past the low stone wall at the front of the yard. The house is small, by the standards of a family that owns two palaces. She knocks, even though Elia has told her a dozen times to just walk in.

 

"Dany! Come in, my love. I thought you'd be back at school already."

 

Elia leads her into the house. It smells like lemons and fresh baked bread. They cut through the dining room to the patio, where Elia has her easel set up. 

 

"I like the colours," Dany says. It's a watercolour of one of the bazaars, all purple awnings and yellow and orange citrus fruit. Elia looks over it with a critical eye, then grins, the corners of her eyes creasing.

 

"It's pretty good, you know. Sit down, let's catch up. We missed you at the World Cup." 

 

Dany joins her at the table, offering her the bag of plums. Elia gives her that eye-crinkling smile again and pats her cheek. 

 

"Viserys wanted to listen to the game on the wireless with some of his colleagues," Dany says, trying not to shudder at the memory of how Drogo had looked at her. 

 

Elia throws her dark hair over her shoulder, and Dany gets the sense that she's biting her tongue. She avoids her eyes and grabs a plum. 

 

"Well, anyway - I'm not really fussed about the game, of course. I was just upset about not seeing you. To be honest, though, maybe it's a good thing you've been away, with everything going on. I was planning on spending a few days at the Water Gardens, but now it's nothing but planning and scheming over there." Elia rolls her eyes.

 

"You're not interested in trying for a Martell successor as Minister?"

 

Elia shakes her head vigorously. "I've had enough of political maneuvering for one life time - or rather, enough of being maneuvered politically. An arranged marriage to your brother was enough to convince me of that. It made my whole life feel like playing the game, and the toll it took on my health almost killed me. No," she continues, taking a bite of a plum, "this is where and how I'm happiest. They can sit in their castles and pretend the world is one big game of cyvasse, but this, down here, is where life really happens. Where all the thousands of people their decisions affect work and relax and go about their lives. My brothers should spend more time here. It might give them some perspective."

 

Dany smiles. "I don't know, Elia. There are no palaces in Pentos, but all the mansions have walls, and the rich merchants use covered sedan chairs to move through the city. I don't think strolling through the bazaar from time to time is going to give anyone the perspective they need."

 

"Maybe so," Elia sighs. "It certainly hasn't stopped Aegon from joining in with Doran and Oberyn's machinations. He's up there right now. If he didn't have a year of school left I'd think he was planning on running for Minister himself. At least Rhaenys has more sense. Being a mediwitch means she can actually _help_  people."

 

Dany listens to Elia talk about Rhaenys's work at the hospital in Sunspear, and about Uncle Oberyn's chances on the dueling circuit this year. Dany fills her in about how her three dragons are doing, and about school at the Free Cities Academy.

 

"My yearmates and I helped with some wildlife preservation efforts. I didn't think they'd really be into it, but once they saw my dragons they suddenly found the concept a lot more interesting."

 

"It's not just about the dragons, my love. You have a way about you. You inspire people - they want to follow where you lead." Elia grasps her hand affectionately.

 

Dany smiles and looks down. "I should go. Viserys wants me home to pack for school." 

 

Elia walks her to the door. "Dany," she says, her voice soft. "Have a good year. I love you."

 

Dany nods tightly and Elia sweeps her into one last hug. She tugs the door open and emerges into the thick, hot, air of the city. She looks back at Elia's house, with its red door and its lemon tree in the front, and swallows past the lump in her throat.

 

She apparates away.

 

 

* * *

 

_But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid._

 

Lyanna had never been much of a reader in life. But being dead came with a lot of time and not much to fill it with. Sometime after Sansa had expanded her tastes beyond her illustrated edition of  _Florian and Jonquil and Other Tales_ , Lyanna had begun reading over her shoulder. It was something to do. Sometimes she was visible. Most of the time she wasn't. But she noticed that Sansa quietly began reading more crime fiction and travelogues after Lyanna mentioned she enjoyed them. Now it's sort of... their thing. Lyanna leans a bit closer to where Sansa has the book laid open on her quilt. 

 

Sansa turns the page and shivers under her blanket. "Aunt Lyanna?"

 

Lyanna becomes visible and tucks her legs up underneath her, floating a few inches above the bed across from her niece. Sansa has grown, this past year. Her face is more slender, her eyes more careworn. Lyanna feels a pang of remorse at the innocence she's lost. And then a swell of pride, remembering what the Tyrell girl had told her about how splendidly Sansa had risen to her family's challenges. 

 

"I missed you," Sansa says, smiling. "I haven't read Chandler or Highsmith since you've been gone. It wasn't the same."

 

"I missed you too, little wolf. How was your year? I hear you bit a certain obstinate lord's fingers off. I've never been more proud."

 

Sansa grins, and she never looks more like a Stark than when she smiles. Even if all the children but Arya favour Catelyn, they all share that... well... _wolfish_ grin. It reminds Lyanna of growing up with her own siblings, of playing in the Godwood with Ned and Benjen. _Brandon was too old for our games. And maybe too full of himself, too._

 

Lyanna feels like she's allowed to speak ill of the dead, considering she's one of them. 

 

"It was a lot, but I'm glad we're through it now." Sansa's words are positive, but her tone is anything but. Lyanna waits patiently.

 

"How did you feel when you were betrothed to Robert Baratheon?"

 

"Oh, wow. You've become... much more straightforward this year." 

 

"I'm sorry," Sansa says. 

 

"No, don't - it's alright. You just surprised me." Lyanna regards her niece thoughtfully. _Although perhaps I shouldn't be surprised._  She has always been most like Arya in appearance and character. But she often forgets that her situation, in being the eldest (and in her case only) daughter, is most similar to Sansa's. _And we've never really talked about this, her and I._ "I was... angry. In one sense it was what I expected. My father was very traditional, and very ambitious. I thought he was going to disown me when I started competing in dueling. The only reason he didn't was because Robert liked it, this wild edge that I had. To my father, that was my role - to marry well and cement his Southron alliances. He didn't care about what I wanted out of life personally." 

 

Sansa nods thoughtfully. "Dad isn't like that. Not really."

 

"No," Lyanna says. "But at the time... Ned supported the match. He had grown up with Robert. Shared a dormitory with him for seven years. He didn't understand that Robert's bad qualities weren't obvious to him because he was a man, and a friend. That Robert was selfish, and childish, and had little respect for anyone, especially women. And Ned didn't want to speak against our father. He's always wanted to have it both ways, your dad - for everyone to be happy, but for everyone to play by the rules. He didn't understand that I couldn't be happy that way."

 

"He believes deeply in justice," Sansa muses, running a finger over the spine of her book.

 

"He does. If Ned can't believe in the power of doing what is right, the world doesn't make sense to him anymore. But the world _doesn't_ make sense - it isn't black and white, and often what seems right isn't right at all. It's just... authority. And him not being able to see that felt like an incredible betrayal."

 

"When I told him about Joffrey he believed me. And he apologized. But I can't help thinking lately... why did he try to arrange something between Joffrey and I anyway? I mean, it was nothing formal. That isn't really done anymore. But why did he encourage it?"

 

Lyanna sighs. "I thought about it a lot. I yelled at him about it a lot, to be honest. I think... I think there was some part of him that believed that if I'd married Robert, that I'd still be alive. I think he needed to cling to the thought that he could have had some element of control over my fate, especially after having lost father and Brandon. And when Robert suggested that you and Joffrey be steered toward one another, to become the tie between our families that he and I should have been, Ned thought... well, he thought that to refuse would be to admit that he was wrong. That I wouldn't have been any better off with Robert."

 

"And when I told him how Joffrey had treated me, and that I'd broken up with him, he allowed himself to see that you were right about Robert all along."

 

"Exactly. I would have been miserable with Robert. Maybe I still would have died in childbirth, who knows. I know that for all I have _always_ disliked Cersei Lannister, I don't blame her one bit for not wanting to have that man's children. Do you know why I ran away with Rhaegar?" Sansa shakes her head. "My father told me that once I married Robert I could never skinchange again. That Robert could never know, because the Baratheons have always driven policy against so-called non humans."

 

Sansa gasps, and Lyanna can see her considering what a horror it would be to stifle that integral part of herself.

 

"They told me at the dueling championships at Harrenhal. My father told me that it would be my last competition, and that I could never be the wolf again. Rhaegar was a way out. We left the same night."

 

"So you didn't... did you love Rhaegar?"

 

Lyanna shrugs. "He was handsome, he was there, and he had his own properties that we could run away to. We had some good times together, don't get me wrong. He wasn't quite as much of an ass as Robert was. But at the end of the day, I was running away from my life because if I stayed I would have to give up all my dreams for the future, and everything that made me who I was. He was running away because he was sick of his wife and children. His match was political, but there was no one breathing down his neck telling him that he had to stop dueling, or put the brakes on his career, or ignore fundamental parts of himself. He was selfish, just like Robert, and we really didn't have much in common. I was a prize to him, and a vacation from his responsibilities."

 

Sansa drums her hand on the bedspread, deep in thought. "I know that dad is a good man. And I know he isn't his father. Sometimes I think that he wouldn't care one bit if the North separated and no one ever went south again, honestly. But... Myrcella and her siblings - and Cersei - have been in such a terrible situation for so long. And dad didn't say or do anything. Like... the idea that it was Robert's house and it was his job to have it in order. So... I just worry. About him caring more about upholding traditions and the letter of the law than... what is actually better."

 

"Like Robert being in prison instead of Cersei."

 

"Yeah." Sansa looks up at Lyanna desperately. "Myrcella is one of my best friends. And Robert was a terrible Minister. But now... there's going to be this chaotic scramble for power, and what if more people get hurt as a result?"

 

Lyanna raises an eyebrow. "And what if the worst happens, and another selfish bigot ends up in power?"

 

Sansa sighs. "It all just seems pointless. If even good men like my dad keep making the same mistakes and upholding outdated practices, what chance do we actually have of anything changing for the better?"

 

Lyanna runs cold fingers through Sansa's hair and watches her niece shiver. "Let me tell you something, Sansa. Despite what that nagging, guilty voice in that back of your father's mind may say, I am not a fucking cautionary tale. I'm _glad_ I ran away. I just wish that I hadn't needed Rhaegar to get away with it. So what I'm trying to say is: fuck the rules. Go your own way. You aren't going to change anything by playing by your father's rules, as much as you may love him."

 

Lyanna can see Sansa turning her words over and over in her mind as she drifts out of the room. She goes to the broken tower, as she often does to think. As she watches the moon rise over Winterfell, she wonders if she's had this ghost thing all wrong. 

 

_Maybe the problem isn't that Ned hasn't forgiven himself. Maybe it's that_ I _haven't forgiven him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that some of the ages, particularly with the Dornish contingent and the Targaryens, are a bit wonky. I've messed around with things where necessary to get different characters where I want them in the story. :) Thanks for reading!


	5. Generation Gap

Margaery's still not totally sold on Winterfell. It's chilly, and the colours are muted, and it's rare that she gets a day with Sansa entirely to herself while they're there.

 

However.

 

The absence of parents has been an unmistakable perk. 

 

Margaery has about half a second to feel guilty about how she phrased that thought before Sansa's lips are on hers again, and all rational thought goes out the window.

 

Sansa tugs Margaery towards her bed and Margaery maneuvers them so that Sansa lands flat on her back. They both laugh a bit at Sansa's surprised " _oof_ ," but then Margaery is straddling Sansa's hips, her hair falling around them like a curtain as she looks at Sansa beneath her.

 

Sansa's red hair is mussed from Margaery's grasping fingers, and her fair skin is flushed becomingly. Margaery has a moment of unreality, like she's daydreaming in Ancient Runes and any moment now Renly is going to poke her and bring her back. 

 

"What is it?" Sansa asks self-conciously.

 

Margaery laughs inwardly. That the Sansa Stark who can walk naked through a forest without blushing and the Sansa Stark looking shyly up at her now are the same person will never cease to amuse - and thrill - her.

 

"Just thinking about how lucky I am to be spending the night in Sansa Stark's bedroom - and how lucky we both are that your siblings aren't snitches now that your parents are home."

 

Sansa laughs and twists a lock of Margaery's hair around her finger. "The number of times I've let Theon climb through my window to avoid getting caught in Robb's room... they owe me."

 

Margaery leans down to pepper Sansa's face with soft kisses. "Well I for one am delighted that you have so many favours in the bank."

 

Sansa hums her agreement and finds Margaery's lips with her own again, biting her bottom lip lightly but insistently and pulling Margaery closer. 

 

Margaery skates her hand lightly up Sansa's stomach to cup her breast through her shirt and smirks as Sansa arches her back. This is new for them, added to their repertoire during a heated fumble in a gazebo at Highgarden, and Margaery doesn't think the novelty will ever wear off for her. Sansa's lips move to the spot just underneath Margaery's ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Margaery gasps and Sansa's hips jump, making both girls moan. Margaery brings her hands back to Sansa's hair and kisses her messily and hungrily. Sansa arches against her and scratches a nail down her neck to her breast, accidentally brushing Margaery's nipple with her thumb.

 

Margaery breaks the kiss and Sansa stills her hand, the two breathing heavily. Margaery groans and rolls off of the other girl and Sansa blows out a heavy gust of air. They lay there cooling down for a few minutes before Sansa speaks.

 

"Have you ever...?" Sansa trails off, looking so vulnerable that Margaery can't even laugh at her for not being able to say what they had just been about four articles of clothing away from doing.

 

"Had sex?" Margaery asks gently, mirroring Sansa and turning onto her side. "Twice. There was a girl from the Reach..."

 

Sansa nods, picking at the blanket. "Does it bother you that I'm... that I'm not ready?"

 

Margaery takes Sansa's hand and kisses her wrist. "No. Every moment spent with you is incredible. It doesn't matter what we're doing - or not doing."

 

Sansa looks at her for a moment, head resting on her arm, blue eyes serious. Then she throws back the covers and gets underneath, motioning for Margaery to do the same. Margaery lays her head on Sansa's chest and falls asleep to the sound of her heart beating.

 

* * *

 

Sansa sees Margaery off through her window on the back of a Thestral ("It's safe, alright? I promise. You can see the saddle - just hang onto that until you get to the gatehouse.") and then hurriedly gets dressed and heads down to the Hall. She's relieved to see that her siblings are already a flurry of activity. 

 

"Rickon! Did you wash your face? I'm not being seen with you if you have mud across your forehead." Her younger brother scowls and runs off to the bathroom.

 

"Arya! Do you have everything arranged to pick up Lyanna Mormont?"

 

Arya nods, pulling on her coat. "I'm going to get her at the gatehouse in Winter Town right now."

 

"Wait a sec!" Robb appears in the doorway with a barely-awake Theon. "Robin's asked to come as well. He should be arriving at the same time, so grab them both."

 

"Maybe I'll just 'forget' him," Arya grumbles under her breath. She still hasn't forgotten what an absolute brat Robin had been for the first half of his stay at Winterfell. _Honestly, I haven't either,_  Sansa thinks, remembering all the times she'd had to be responsible for him. _If Aunt Lysa deserves to be in prison, it's for raising a little monster like that._

Then Sansa remembers Azkaban, and shudders.

 

"Did our letters arrive? This would be a pretty poor trip without our supply lists."

 

"I have them all with me," Robb says, holding up a stack of envelopes. "Still no Prefects in the family, what a surprise." Sansa and Robb share a grin. 

 

"Don't forget we're meeting Shireen!" Rickon says, hair askew and face still dripping. Sansa rolls her eyes and spells the water off his face. 

 

"I haven't forgotten. We'll collect her at the Leaky Cauldron. Now where are Bran and Jon?"The two in question emerge guiltily from the kitchens. "Ugh, you two. We'll eat when we get there. Just think of Masha's sweet cakes and stay strong."

 

Sansa finally takes a deep breath and looks around the room to see if she's forgotten anyone.

 

Her parents are standing at the door, gaping.

 

_Oh. Right._

"M'lord?" Jory calls down from the stairs. Ned opens his mouth to respond, but Robb beats him to it.

 

"Everything ready, Jory?"

 

"I've got a small retinue ready to come with you whenever you're good to go. And by small retinue, I mean Alyn and I."

 

"Perfect, thanks Jory. I - " Whatever Robb is about to say next dies on his lips as he notices their parents. Slowly the rest of the Stark siblings sense that something is amiss, and follow Sansa and Robb's gaze to the two people they've gotten used to just... not being there.

 

Ned waves them on with a small smile. "As you were." 

 

Jeyne Poole slips in from behind Ned and Catelyn as the Starks spring back into action. " _Wow._  Awkward."

 

Sansa elbows her and approaches her parents. 

 

"Sorry," she starts, "we've had the day planned for weeks and I didn't think... anyway, um, would you like to come?"

 

Ned laughs. There's more colour in his face, but his eyes are still haunted. "No, I think I'd rather put my first public appearance off as long as possible. You seem like you have things well in hand."

 

Catelyn is more reticent. "Sansa, are you positive it's a good idea to go to Diagon Alley at all? I had thought of maybe just sending someone out to get your things. The place will be crawling with reporters once they find out you're all there. It might end up being a bit of a mess."

 

"I know, mum," Sansa says gently. "To be honest, I'd rather take everyone to Riverrun or Oldtown for supplies. But it's Rickon's first year, and he deserves to have the experience of going to Diagon Alley with all his friends. He's been cooped up here all year. We can at least take a stab at normalcy." Rickon runs up to her for a final inspection. He's somehow managed to get dirt on his nose in the last five minutes, and Sansa rubs it off absently before noticing her mother's stricken face that Rickon had gone to Sansa instead of her. 

 

"We'll stay here," Ned says, taking Catelyn's elbow to lead her to the table. "Have a good time, and bring me back some ice cream, would you?" Ned ruffles Rickon's hair, and he finally seems to notice his parents. He gives them a broad smile and doesn't wait for his mother's hug before running off to wait in the courtyard for Lyanna and Robin.

 

_Mum's right about one thing,_  Sansa thinks wearily as she fetches the portkey. _This is a mess._

 

* * *

 

Margaery hops lightly from the Abraxan's back to her balcony and dispels the Disillusionment charm from herself. _Much better than a godsdamned Thestral._ She changes her clothes and heads down to breakfast like she's been home all night. She meets Loras on the stairs and he gives her a knowing look.

 

_Oh, right. Like Renly isn't in Loras's room_ right now _waiting so his "arrival" doesn't seem suspicious._

 

They head down to the terrace. Olenna is already holding court, railing about all the fat, middle-aged men in the Wizengamot. Her own fat, middle-aged son eats his eggs in silence, nodding along. Alerie, Garlan, and Willas are all over, as it's Sunday. And Renly makes a show of arriving from the direction of the outer gate just as Loras and Margaery are sitting down. 

 

"Got my Hogwarts letter," Renly says cheerfully, waving his envelope. 

 

"Yours have arrived, too," says Alerie, grateful for the interruption to Olenna's tirade. 

 

Loras reaches for his. "Well, I'll just get this over with, so that two of you can start planning how you're going to preside over the school as reigning Heads. At least I should have the Quidditch captaincy coming my way."

 

Margaery smirks and reaches for hers. It has a satisfying weight to it. She opens it and a metal badge tumbles out, just as it has the previous two years.

 

_Prefect._

 

Margaery stares dumbly at the badge in her hand. _Prefect? What in the Maiden-fucking, Smith-smiting Seven Hells?_

 

Renly grins at her from across the table, holding up his Head Boy badge. His smile falters as he takes in Margaery's shell-shocked expression.

 

"What in the Seven Hells? If I'm not Quidditch Captain, who is?" Loras exclaims, slamming his envelope down on the table. "Oi, Marge, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost, and Great-Uncle Dickon was exorcised last year."

 

Renly has opened his letter in the meantime. "It says here that my opposite number is Myranda Royce. _Myranda Royce?_  She almost got her badge stripped last year for selling Firewhiskey to fourth years! She showed up to maybe three prefect meetings last term. This has to be a mistake."

 

Margaery hands him the Prefect badge wordlessly. The table has gone silent. Willas is looking at her with unbearable kindness. Olenna's expression is unreadable.

 

Margaery stands abruptly, her silverware clattering. "I'm going for a fly."

 

_This wasn't supposed to happen._ Margaery strides down the path through the East Garden. She'd done everything in her power to make sure she was the only logical choice for Head Girl. Sure, there had been that one... anomaly when she and Loras had been caught with contraband, but overall she'd been meticulous about at least appearing to be a perfect prefect.

 

Suddenly all of her plans seem to fall away before her, and everything that had been so certain seems flimsy. Margaery doesn't realize until she's there that her feet have led her not to the pitch, but to the Sisters, the ancient weirwoods the Gardeners had planted centuries before. 

 

_Myranda Royce. I can't believe it._

 

Margaery's entire time at Hogwarts thus far has been a carefully planned list of activities and accolades. Slytherin Seeker from Third Year onward. Potions Club president. Founder of the Peer Tutoring Service. Prefect. Head Girl had been her final box to tick in her illustrious school career, and she hadn't anticipated it being a difficult one.

 

_If I was wrong about being good enough to be Head Girl, what else am I wrong about?_

 

Margaery feels her confidence draining out of her by the minute, and she's never hated a feeling more.

 

She sloshes through the pond angrily and sits underneath the Sisters, for once unafraid of their red faces and bone white bark. She sits among the roots, letting her head fall back against the ancient tree, and tries to convince herself to keep things in perspective.

 

It doesn't help.

 

_This was my last chance to really lead. For a long time, anyway. What do I have to look forward to when I'm out of school? Years, decades maybe, of slogging away at the Ministry, climbing the ladder, before I'm in a position with any real power. Just jumping through hoops and keeping my head down while men like my father run the world into the ground._

 

Margaery cries out in frustration and throws the Prefect badge as far as she can into the trees.

 

* * *

 

The Starks are happily munching sweet cakes doused in honey and drinking coffee when Shireen Baratheon arrives at the Leaky Cauldron. She looks shy and a little nervous, and is hiding her greyscale behind her hair as usual. Her face brightens as Rickon and Lyanna run over to her, eagerly introducing her to Robin. Sansa smiles at the sight of it. 

 

Her smile falters a bit when Tommen Baratheon tumbles out of the hearth. Myrcella steps out gracefully behind him and steadies her brother. Sansa had taken care to explain everything (other than Tommen's parentage) to Rickon, but she still doesn't know how her brother will react to the boy whose mother put their dad in prison. 

 

She's about to say something when Shireen speaks up, trying to keep her voice steady. "My cousin Tommen's coming with us." Sansa can't help but admire how the girl keeps her chin up although she's obviously terrified of what her new friends will say.

 

Sansa lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding when Rickon immediately hugs Tommen in that odd, boyish, backslapping way he must have learned from Jon and Robb. "Hi Tom! It's been forever - you know Lyanna, but have you met my cousin Robin? I can't wait to go to Quality Quidditch supplies..." 

 

Myrcella walks over, resolutely ignoring the whispers that have started now that the children of the disgraced former Minister have arrived. "Hey, Sans. I don't mean to impose. Shireen was... quite insistent."

 

"No, I'm glad you're here. I should have thought to invite Tommen along. I can't imagine this has been easy on him, and Rickon's been missing him all year anyway."

 

"You're allowed to come with as long as you don't bring your _other_  brother," Jeyne snarks. Myrcella grins.

 

"No chance of that. He's at home moping that he didn't make Quidditch captain. As though they'd put him in charge of the team when the only game he played last year was the one where he ended up with his face in the dirt."

 

Sansa smiles beatifically.

 

They make their way out of the Leaky Cauldron. Lyanna insists that the five first years touch the brick at the same time to make the archway appear, and Myrcella snaps a photo. By unspoken agreement, the Starks surround Myrcella and Tommen as a buffer against the gaping bystanders. They skip Gringotts, that being Sansa's only concession to the reality of the paparazzi. _By the time we came out of the vaults, all the reporters in Westeros would be waiting to ambush us. Better to keep moving._

 

Rickon and Lyanna are disappointed to not be riding in the carts, but a trip into Quality Quidditch supplies proves sufficiently distracting. The first years crawl all over the shop in excitement, while the teenagers browse at a more sedate pace.

 

"Who knows?" Myrcella says, examining a pair of extra grippy Chaser gloves. "Maybe now that your brothers have graduated, Ravenclaw actually stands a chance."

 

"Maybe," Arya concedes. "If you can rebuild your Chaser roster. You're the only one of the dream team who hasn't graduated yet. I'm surprised you aren't captain, actually."

 

Myrcella flushes, pleased. "Oh, I don't know..."

 

"It's such garbage that first years aren't allowed broomsticks," Lyanna huffs. "How else am I supposed to burn off steam after sitting in a classroom all day?" Rickon gives her a meaningful look. She rolls her eyes at him.

 

"Loras Tyrell had a broom in his first year," Rickon says, his eyes shining with hero worship. "He was the youngest Seeker in a century."

 

"You'll have to really put your mind to it if you want to be as good as him," Sansa says, thinking of all the times she's gone out for a morning fly to see Loras already out there alone, relentlessly running drills. "He even has a Snitch that he practises with in the Common Room. He does his homework with one hand and catches the Snitch with the other."

 

"So you're saying that I should bring a Bludger into the Common Room?" Rickon says, not completely joking. Sansa cuffs him on the back of the head and idly peruses the Seeker equipment. _I wonder if Margaery would like these bracers._

Robb gets her attention and nods to the window, where she can see that a number of photographers are making their way through the busy back-to-school throng. They gather up their party and make a beeline for Madame Malkin's.

 

"It says we need dress robes this year," Jeyne says, frowning at her supply list. "Do you think we'll have a ball?"

 

Sansa grins excitedly. _A ball._ Unbidden, an image of Margaery dressed to the nines comes to mind. Sansa swallows and tries to bring herself back to the present. 

 

They get the first years standing on stools to be measured for uniforms and start browsing the dress robes. Sansa watches Arya flick through a rack of robes, an expression of mounting frustration and embarrassment on her face. Sansa sidles over to her sister.

 

"I can make you something, if you like. Something less..."

 

"Aggressively feminine?" Arya says hopelessly.

 

"Yeah," Sansa smiles. "You know, women wearing tuxedos is all the rage in the Muggle world now. I don't see why witches should stay strapped into corsets."

 

The tension drains out of Arya and she smiles up at her sister. "You'd do that?"

 

"Of course. I'll draw some stuff when we get home and you can tell me what you like."

 

Sansa looks over her shoulder to see that Jory and Alyn are having a hell of a time keeping the a growing crowd of reporters at bay. She hurries everyone to the front with their purchases and gives Madame Malkin her most charming smile. 

 

"Madame, would you mind terribly if we made use of your Floo? It would mean a lot if we could finish our back to school shopping without being harassed." Sansa throws an arm around Rickon's shoulder and kicks him in the ankle. On cue, her brother's face crumples.

 

"It's my first time," he quavers. _Laying it on a little thick, maybe._ But when the rest of his little gang assumes similar downtrodden expressions, Madame Malkin readily agrees. 

 

Sansa steps through the hearth, arriving at Flourish and Blotts and counting the rest of the party as they come through. When Robb and Theon step through, bringing up the rear, Sansa's stomach sinks. 

 

"Where in the _Seven Hells_  are Rickon and his friends?"

 

* * *

Shireen has never broken the rules in her life.

 

Her existence, thus far, has consisted of lessons with Maester Cressen, reading in her room, and avoiding her R'Hllor-crazed mother. She looks forward to the summers when her Uncle Renly is out of school, but he's at home less and less as he gets older. She hadn't been so lonely when her cousin Edric was around, but Edric has been gone for three years, shipped off to the Free Cities for reasons unknown to her. _Edric made me feel brave_ , Shireen thinks. _And now Rickon and Lyanna make me feel brave._  She thinks that's why she went along with it when Rickon had whispered that she should say _Gambol and Japes_ instead of _Flourish and Blotts_  when it's her turn to Floo.

 

Rickon grins at her as she steps through the hearth. He's put a Muggle baseball cap on to cover his conspicuous hair, and Tommen has done the same. Lyanna and Robin are already in the shop proper, stocking up on Filibuster's Fireworks and Dungbombs. Shireen holds up a packet of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, thinking that maybe she could prank Uncle Renly with it. _He'd never expect it._ She smiles.

 

"Arya is _notorious_  for her pranks," says Rickon proudly. "She once rerouted every staircase from the Ravenclaw common room so that no matter how hard they tried to get down to the Great Hall for breakfast, they ended up at the Astronomy Tower instead."

 

Lyanna grins. "Is it true that your siblings know every secret passage in the school?"

 

"Yeah, of course. They have to, obviously - " Rickon cuts himself off and studiously examines a hand buzzer that promises "All the Fun of Being in an Electrical Storm." Shireen tilts her head curiously. 

 

Robin and Tommen come running past them before she has a chance to inquire about Rickon's sudden evasiveness. "We've been made!" Sure enough, there are half a dozen reporters determinedly wading through the gaggles of schoolchildren towards them. 

 

Shireen is frozen for a moment, the horror of so many eyes on her (on her and on her _face_ ) paralyzing her. Then she hears Lyanna calling her name from where she's holding open the back door, and Shireen turns and runs. She pauses for an instant on the threshold, then throws the packet of Instant Darkness Powder into the shop and slams the door. Lyanna cackles as they run down the back alley behind the boys. " _Nice_  one Shireen!" 

 

The group takes shelter behind a half-wall, panting and laughing as they sit against the crumbling brick. "That was amazing," Tommen says, a broad grin stretching across his face. Shireen hasn't seen her cousin smile in weeks. 

 

"Sansa and Robb are going to be furious," Rickon says grudgingly. "I guess we should make our way to Flourish and Blotts."

 

The group abruptly falls silent as the door to the building they're against opens. At Rickon's signal, they all slouch further down against the wall to stay out of view.

 

"I want to make sure this is going to be worth my while," one of the voices says. It's a man with some kind of Free Cities accent.

 

"Of course, of course. We all want to protect our investments," comes a smooth, oily voice. This man is from Westeros, Shireen is sure.

 

"I need some collateral," the Free Cities man says. "The Iron Bank does not do business without a guarantee."

 

"Oh, so you're here on behalf of the Iron Bank, now? Here I thought that you had a _personal_ interest in the matter. I'll just report to your superiors at the Bank, then."

 

The man's voice goes tight with anger. "You threaten me, Baelish?"

 

"No, no, of course not. I just wanted to make sure that we understood each other. We are in this together, after all. And we're in for very _exciting_  and very _lucrative_  year if we just remember that fact."

 

Robin visibly suppresses a yelp as a cigarette butt comes flying over the wall, nearly landing on him. The two men disappear back through the door and the group exchanges a worried look, unsure of what they've just overheard. 

 

"Now we _really_  have to get back to Sansa and Robb," Rickon says. "I know that guy. He's bad news. We don't want to be anywhere near here."

 

The group follows Rickon stealthily, putting distance between themselves and two men that Shireen knows in her gut to be extremely dangerous.

 

* * *

Margaery is surprised when it's Garlan that comes looking for her first. Her brother enchants a bridge across the pond and sits beside her in silence for a bit. 

 

"Butterbeer?" He says finally. Margaery wants to be sulky and refuse, but she's been out in the godswood for hours and she's thirsty. She accepts the bottle and notes grudgingly that her mood does improve a bit when she sips the icy beverage.

 

"I wasn't Head Boy, you know," Garlan starts conversationally.

 

Margaery looks at him sideways. "I know." _But it's not the same, so kindly shut up._

 

"But did you know I wanted to be? I worked so hard to distinguish myself in sixth year. I even prioritized my prefect duties over Quidditch, which meant I didn't make captain in seventh year. Guyard Morrigen, that utter prick, got Head Boy instead. I still think he bought his way in. So in seventh year I found myself at loose ends with none of the things I'd worked for."

 

"Is that why you don't try for any high offices now?" Margaery asks with an uncharacteristic lack of tact. Garlan gives her a wry look.

 

"Yes, in fact. But not because my spirit was broken or some garbage like that. Because I spent the whole year helping in different ways. I was the best godsdamned Assistant Captain you'd ever find and Gryffindor utterly destroyed every other team that year. I founded the Dueling Club and didn't turn a single person away, no matter how old they were or what their blood was. I started helping out as a mentor for incoming Muggleborns, and got my friends into it as well. And what did Guyard Morrigen do? Nothing except strut around with his shiny badge. And it's not to say I wouldn't have made a better Head Boy than Guyard - but I wouldn't have had the time or the impetus to do all the meaningful things I did if I'd been responsible for scheduling patrols and hosting meetings."

 

Margaery thinks on that for a while. She knew that Garlan had founded a number of school clubs, and that he had been beloved among students and teachers alike. But she hadn't realized that it had come out of thwarted ambition. _But it wasn't ambition for ambition's sake. Garlan really wanted to make a difference._

"And I'm not trying to, you know, feed you some bullshit about how everything worked out for the best, and you'll go down the exact same road as me, blah blah blah... You're allowed to be upset about this. I was. But you're the smartest, most driven person I know, and I know you'll find a way to make your mark."

 

Margaery taps her fingers against her bottle of Butterbeer. "Garlan? What do you do? I mean, I know you manage Brightwater, and that you do sort of... general Tyrell stuff. But what do you and Leonette actually _do?_ "

 

Garlan grins and skips a stone across the pond. "Now you're asking the right questions. Seeing how much more I could get done _not_ being Head Boy led me to think of all the things I could do if I wasn't Minister, or wasn't spending all my time gunning to be Minister. Don't get me wrong - if you want to go that way, I support you completely. But I've been able to leverage my wealth to do so many important things. Haven't you noticed the increase in Muggleborns and students of so-called low birth at Hogwarts these past few years? It's because Leonette and I started a trust that provides scholarships to those students. My dream is to one day make Hogwarts completely public - or if not, to start a school that is. And I back several lobby groups that are pushing for every magical adult to be able to vote for Minister and other public offices, not just the families in the Wizengamot. How ridiculous is it, really, that an oligarchy of old noble families runs... everything?"

 

"Gods. Don't tell Grandmother you're doing that."

 

"Grandmother is still a bit... you know, matriarch of a Great House, consolidating power and generational wealth, etc... we don't really talk about what we do. And Willas! Did you know that more women than ever are going into Potions and Herbology fields because of his apprenticeship program? So Grandmother... isn't always on board. We call ourselves Team Good-for-Nothing."

Margaery snorts. "Pretty apt, from Grandmother's perspective." Garlan laughs self deprecatingly. "Thank you, Garlan. Really. This... helped a lot. I still wanted to make those godsdamned patrol schedules, though," Margaery sighs. Garlan laughs even harder. "Really! I would have made sure Joffrey Baratheon didn't get a good night's sleep all year. I guess Renly will have to do it."

 

Margaery sits alone for a while after Garlan leaves her, feeling lighter and more determined. _I'll just have to figure out another way to do good work - and to prove myself._

* * *

 

There are no more incidents once Rickon and his friends get to Flourish and Blotts, thankfully ahead of Jory and Alyn, who had doubled back and come through the main entrance rather than Flooing. 

 

"And what are you going to say to your parents about this?" Sansa asks fiercely for the fifth time as Jory and Alyn take up their positions outside the door.

 

"Not a godsdamned word," the group of eleven-year-olds choruses dutifully. 

 

"Mum will never let you out of her sight again, not even to go to Hogwarts," Sansa warns Rickon once his friends have moved away to look for their schoolbooks. 

 

"I know. I just wanted - "

 

"I know what you wanted," Sansa says, not unkindly. "You had it the worst out of all of us last year. Just remember, we're not your parents. We're your siblings. We're your partners in crime. You don't have to rebel against us."

 

Rickon nods and looks at his shoes. 

 

Sansa lifts his chin. "I don't know how to tell you this, but we're going to be breaking all kinds of rules together next year. It kind of goes with the territory." She grins with a mouthful of fangs for a split second before changing back, and Rickon smiles. 

 

They get the rest of their school things. Sansa takes off to Scribbulus Writing Instruments to get some things for her Advanced Ancient Runes tutorial, and when she comes back the rest of the group are eating ice cream and admiring Shireen's new cat, Patches. They make their way back to the Leaky Cauldron in good spirits and say their goodbyes, with promises to meet up on the Hogwarts Express. The Starks Floo to Winter Town and Rickon beams the whole drive home.

 

Their parents are waiting for them in the Great Hall with dinner ready. Rickon scrambles up to his seat and gives Ned the promised ice cream, which their father starts in on before he even starts eating his proper dinner. 

 

When everyone's eaten and heading their separate ways, Catelyn asks Sansa and Robb to stay. 

 

"You were photographed with Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon," Ned starts. Sansa immediately bristles, and Robb lays a hand on her arm. Not in restraint, but in support.

 

"We've been friends with Myrcella and Tommen our whole lives," Robb says evenly. 

 

"I don't care if people think it's weird that we're hanging out with kids who are supposed to be our enemies. They can go to all Seven Hells," Sansa says.

 

Catelyn sighs. "It's not about public perception. We're just - _concerned_  that you're spending time with those Lannister children. Cersei framed your father. Who knows what she's teaching them? I'm especially concerned about Rickon spending time with Tommen. You know he's too young to be a good judge of character."

 

Sansa barks out a disbelieving laugh. "He's clearly a better judge of character than _you,_ if you can't see that a _Flobberworm_  is more duplicitous than Tommen. And I _know_ Myrcella. If you've forgotten, she's the reason you're not rotting in Azkaban anymore!"

 

"You thought you _knew_  Joffrey," Ned points out. Sansa gasps. _I can't_ believe...

 

Robb slams his fist down on the table. " _Out of line_ ," he says between gritted teeth. 

 

"I'm sorry," says Ned. He seems to sincerely regret his words, but Sansa's blood is boiling. 

 

" _I_ thought I knew Joffrey? _You_ thought you knew Joffrey. You were the one who was supposed to make sure he was safe before you unofficially betrothed me to him!"

 

Ned flinches as though slapped. Catelyn gives Sansa a warning look, which she ignores.

 

"I will _not_  turn my back on Myrcella, and I'll be _damned_  before I let you put any ideas into Rickon's head about Tommen," says Sansa.

 

" _Let_  us?" Catelyn retorts, her tone close to a screech. "We're his _parents!"_

Ned puts his hand on Catelyn's arm. "Okay. Alright. This has gotten out of hand. We know that the two of you have been doing the lion's share of the work with, well, _everything_ , including" - he makes eye contact with Catelyn - " _including_  parenting your siblings. And that has to count for something. But you have to understand that I just spent a _year_  in prison because of the mother of these children."

 

"And you have to understand that we've spent a year being ostracized by our peers because of your supposed sins. Even if you _had_ embezzled funds from the Wizengamot, would we have deserved that?" Ned and Catelyn are silent, and Robb continues. "Myrcella and Tommen are going to need all the friends they can get this year. You think those kids aren't terrified of going to school? You're concerned that they'll be these manipulative monsters, but I think you'll find that they're using all of their capacity just to survive. _We_ certainly were."

 

"You weren't concerned with us being friends with them when you thought Robert Baratheon was their father," Sansa adds, her anger distilling into a cold fury. "Robert, who hit his wife and abused his kids. Who had a dozen mistresses and once told you that you should have beaten Robb and Theon to set them straight. In fact, last I checked, Robert Baratheon is more of a confirmed asshole than Jaime Lannister."

 

The colour drains from her parents' faces. Sansa doesn't let up.

 

"Before you decide to preach to us about whom we associate with, maybe you should look at the company _you_  keep."

 

Sansa gets up and leaves the Hall, Robb on her heels. 

 

In the corridor, Aunt Lyanna is giving them a one-woman standing ovation. 

 

 


	6. Power Move

Platform 9 and 3/4 is just as frantic as it is every year. Margaery watches as an unfortunate first year drops his trunk on his father's toe; beside her, a cat escapes from its carrier and begins darting through people's legs, its owner in hot pursuit on hands and knees; three boys are fighting over who gets to carry Mya Stone's luggage, a battle that she's clearly utterly indifferent to. Amid all this ruckus is the Stark family, a pocket of chaos unto themselves. 

 

Margaery smiles. _There's so many of them._ Rickon is leading the charge eagerly, holding the family owl. Bran is wheeling along with Arya hanging onto the chair behind him, much to Catelyn's obvious disapproval. Theon and Jon are flanking Ned, glaring at anyone who looks like they're going to approach. And Sansa is bringing up the rear with Robb, speaking intently with him about something. _Sansa's the eldest Stark at Hogwarts now. I guess that makes her responsible for their nighttime activities._

 

Sansa hugs both her parents goodbye. Margaery knows that there's a cautious truce between them, mostly because Sansa is going back to school and they don't have time to hash everything out. ("Aunt Lyanna says that Mom and Dad are projecting their own fears onto our experiences, and that with me away at school and Robb out on Creature Control they'll have to actually deal with their baggage on their own," Sansa had told her). 

 

"You have all year to stare at the Stark girl," Olenna says, interrupting Margaery's train of thought. "Are you going to say goodbye to your family or not?"

 

Margaery turns to Garlan and Leonette, who have come in lieu of her parents to see them off. They don't seem too concerned about Margaery's attention wavering for a moment. Loras has already caught Renly's attention and is waving wildly. Margaery steps in to give her grandmother a kiss on the cheek anyway. 

 

"Goodbye, Grandmother. I'll see you over the holidays."

 

"Yes, yes. Have a good term, Margaery. Keep your eye on the prize! It's a big year for you." 

 

Garlan smiles at her and wraps her in a big bear hug. "Remember what we talked about, yeah? I know you'll have a great year." 

 

"I'll make sure I send you a care package," Leonette says with a wink. "Think less baked goods and more contraband."

 

Margaery wheels her trunk over to Loras and passes it up to him. He reaches for her next and hauls her up to the car so quickly she almost falls into him. 

 

"We get it, you're strong," she says, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to show off - Renly's already in the compartment."

 

Loras sticks his tongue out at her and they join Renly. They don't do much other than ditch their luggage before heading down the car to the Prefects' meeting. Margaery sticks her head into the compartment Sansa is sharing with Mya and Jeyne to say hello, and Mya hops up to join them. 

 

"I don't know if I'll have time to stop in again," Margaery says apologetically. "Depends how long the Head Boy here decides to blather on for."

 

Sansa grins at her, but her eyes are knowing. Margaery swallows. _I can hide my disappointment from everyone but her._ "I'll be here. I might even save a few Chocolate Frogs for you, if that's motivation at all."

 

They continue on, Margaery getting more upset with each compartment they pass. Finally they make it to the front car, where most of the other Prefects are already assembled. Renly joins Myranda, who is already holding court, and Margaery and Loras find seats next to one another. Loras gives her arm a squeeze, but carefully avoids looking at her, which she appreciates. The last thing she needs is everyone pitying her.

 

"Didn't make the cut for Head Girl, huh? What will you live for now, Tyrell?" _So much for that thought._  Joffrey Baratheon is smirking at her in his infuriatingly smarmy way.

 

Loras moves to stand, but before he can, Joffrey is suddenly drenched. Everyone's heads swivel to Myranda, whose empty glass of pumpkin juice is still held out in front her. She looks at Joffrey with what Margaery can only describe as casual contempt.

 

"Prefect rule number one: don't be an asshole. Everyone got it?" 

 

In that moment, Margaery understands why Sansa and Myranda are friends.

 

_I'd still make a better Head Girl, though._

 

* * *

The garden is as lush and sun-drenched as Lyanna remembers. A bird with brightly coloured feathers perches in a tree bursting with ripe oranges. In one corner, a fountain trickles in accompaniment to the classical music playing softly from a gramophone on the patio. Elia sits at the table sketching, a steaming mint tea in front of her. Lyanna watches her for a while, invisible. It reminds her of the very first time she came to visit Elia. She'd been dead for a year before she summoned the courage to see the woman whose home she'd wrecked. and had spent an hour in silent observation before she'd spoken to her. 

 

Elia puts her sketchpad aside and waves a hand lazily at the gramophone to switch records. She begins to draw again, singing along in a low, smooth voice. _Rhaegar had the gall to call her boring_ , Lyanna recalls contemptuously.

 

Lyanna still doesn't know what she was looking for all those years ago when she went to see Elia. Judgement? Forgiveness? In the end there had been only Elia's quiet compassion and the realization that they had more interesting things in common than Rhaegar. And so Lyanna had found herself coming back over and over again, despite her own intentions to keep her ties to the living world weak. 

 

_Why am I nervous?_  Lyanna thinks as she crosses the yard to where Elia is sitting. _It's been a year, I suppose. But I'm a ghost - time isn't supposed to mean much to me._

 

A slightly cold breeze precedes her, and Elia looks up hopefully just as Lyanna makes herself visible. A wide grin splits her face and she puts her sketchbook aside. "Lyanna! It's been so long. I hated to think of you stuck in that terrible place."

 

Lyanna smiles. "I'm sorry for not visiting earlier. Ned hasn't felt up to leaving Winterfell, but the kids are off to school today so he's at the station with them. King's Landing is just close enough that I can make the trip to Sunspear." She arranges herself in the chair opposite Elia, floating so close to the seat that she appears to be sitting. 

 

"No need to apologize. I've missed you terribly, though." Elia leans forward conspiratorially. "I thought of framing Oberyn for a crime just so I'd have an excuse to come visit you." She grimaces. "Sorry. Being falsely accused of something probably hits a bit close to home for you and your family right now."

 

Lyanna laughs. "It's fine. When we were in there I told Ned that if he really wanted to spend time with me, he just had to say so. He didn't appreciate it."

 

Elia leans back and rolls her eyes ruefully. "Men have no sense of humour. Doran had me over the other day to discuss the family's political agenda. I asked him who he wanted me to marry this time and he almost choked on his wine."

 

"If he's so offended by the idea of using you for an alliance, he should have protested your marriage in the first place," says Lyanna, her recent thoughts about Ned floating to the front of her mind.

 

"I'm pretty sure he only started to be disgusted by the idea _after_  Rhaegar's treatment of me. _Oberyn_ , on the other hand... I think he was trying to sabotage every possible match from the start." 

 

"Baelor Breakwind," Lyanna says, and they both burst out laughing. 

 

"I liked him!" Elia protests halfheartedly through giggles. "But after he farted in front of Oberyn and I, I just couldn't look at him again!"

 

"Little did you know that in any marriage, you'd be on the receiving end of many of your husband's farts."

 

"Which is just one of _many_  reasons I'm not keen to get married again."

 

"Not to a man, at least. What about a woman? Things have changed a lot in a generation. My Sansa is very keen on Margaery Tyrell. Not to mention that Robb looks set to marry Theon Greyjoy, of all people."

 

Elia just smiles in response. "Our wisteria is starting to climb the side of the house, have a look." Lyanna follows Elia to the side of the house, where the wisteria tree they had planted together ten years ago has indeed started to grow along the white stone towards the tile roof. 

 

"I don't know that you can call it our wisteria when you did all the work," Lyanna says. It's an old argument. 

 

"You were here. You helped pick it out. You encouraged me while I dug. You were a part of this, Lya," Elia scolds her. 

 

Lyanna runs her hand through the violet blooms. She makes a breeze ruffle the branches at the same time, so it's almost like she's actually touching them, instead of going right through. She smiles.

 

Elia walks around the garden, stopping to pick lemons and oranges that are particularly ripe. Lyanna follows, admiring as always the riot of colours. So many earthly pleasures are denied her now, but the pop of orange and yellow fruit, the baked red clay tiles against the bleached white walls of the house, the vivid purple of a wisteria flower in Elia's rich dark hair... these are still there for Lyanna's taking. 

 

"I've been thinking," Lyanna starts, once Elia has filled her in about Rhaenys's work at the hospital and Aegon's newfound political ambition. "About... Ned, and Robert, and Rhaegar, and everything that happened." Elia hums. This topic isn't her favourite, but she's always willing to listen. "I've always thought that, you know, Ned was the reason I'm a ghost. That I haunt him and his guilty conscience. But I've been wondering, lately, whether it might be partly because _I'm_  bitter."

 

"Because you were always dead set on never being tied down to some rich lord and doing nothing but sitting in his castle and now that's quite literally what you do?"

 

"What? No. I mean that I haven't forgiven Ned for not standing up for me about Robert and about my career. What are you talking about?" 

 

"Oh, I just thought you might be rethinking your whole minimal involvement in mortal affairs approach to the afterlife. Never mind."

 

"I don't want to make things difficult for people. And I don't want to have a hard time moving on, if moving on is even in the cards."

 

"Right, of course. Moving on. So what is it about Ned that you've been thinking about?"

 

Lyanna makes the record on the gramophone slow down comically. "Just that he could have backed me up against my father, or actually listened to me when I told him my reservations about Robert. I feel sometimes like he didn't actually see who I was, and didn't treat me like a complete person." Lyanna tells Elia about the conversation she had with Sansa. Elia listens intently, something Lyanna has always appreciated about her, but Lyanna still feels like Elia's mind is somewhere else. 

 

Elia goes into the house to get some more tea, and Lyanna finally happens to glance down at what she'd been sketching when Lyanna appeared. 

 

The drawing is of Lyanna, floating cross-legged in front of the wisteria tree. She abruptly feels like she's missed something important.

 

* * *

Shireen walks past the Thestrals with the other first years, letting them snuffle her hand and carefully petting their smooth backs if they seem amenable. She looks up and sees Sansa Stark observing her shrewdly, but the older girl just smiles when their eyes meet. Shireen hurries to catch up with her friends and hops into their boat just before they launch it. The fleet of boats cuts swiftly across the water of the lake, Tormund at its head. 

 

Shireen hears the collective gasp of her classmates and looks up from Patches' carrier to see Hogwarts coming into view before them. Her breath catches in her throat. She lives in a castle, and she's certainly seen castles more impressive than Hogwarts. But there's something about it. Shireen grimaces internally, but can't help the thought as the mist clears and the castle can be seen in all its splendor. _There really is something_ magical _about it._

 

Her other highborn friends seem to share her awe. Rickon nearly trips as they disembark, too busy staring at the hodgepodge of towers and turrets that really shouldn't be as incredible as they are. They file quietly behind Tormund into the Entrance Hall, and that's when Shireen's heart starts beating in a less-than-pleasant way. In mere moments, she'll be standing in front of the entire school. 

 

_Everyone whispering behind their hands at the girl with the Greyscale face isn't a great way to start the year._

 

Professor Seaworth ushers them into a side room and Shireen feels a little bit better when he gives her an encouraging smile. Home's not always the best place to be, but it feels nice to have a piece of it here anyway. _And Davos is one of the best parts of Storm's End._

 

Shireen realizes she's been lost in thought and catches only the tail end of the Sorting Hat's song. She starts to feel queasy and curses the gods for giving her a last name so early on in the alphabet. Robin Arryn gets sorted into Slytherin after a few moments of deliberation, and then Davos is calling "Baratheon, Shireen."

 

She walks across the stage on unsteady feet. The murmurs that have accompanied her every entrance since being an infant begin. The whispers coming from the Slytherin table are particularly loud, until Margaery Tyrell quells them with a haughty glare. Davos looks at her with his kind, steady eyes and winks, but it doesn't do much to calm Shireen's nerves as she sits on the stool and waits for him to place the hat on her head.

 

Shireen feels the hat droop down slightly over her eyes, and panic suddenly surges through her. _I'm just sitting here, with everyone staring at my face, and I can't even see them._  Her stomach churns with embarrassment. 

 

_Oh, don't bother about them,_  a voice in her head says. Shireen almost starts, even though she knows that the hat can talk. She'd made her father describe the Sorting to her in minute detail so that she wouldn't make any humiliating mistakes. _But this is humiliating anyway,_ she thinks miserably.

 

_You've got quite an interesting brain here, young Baratheon. Very clever, very prepared. A real sense of right and wrong, always ready to stand up for your friends._

 

_Yes, alright,_  Shireen thinks desperately. _That's all very nice. But could you please hurry? It's just that everyone's_ staring  _at me._

 

_Hmm, well - if you want me to go on instinct, better be -_

 

"Gryffindor!"

 

Shireen almost throws off the hat in her haste and tries to look more or less dignified as she heads towards the Gryffindor table, which has exploded into cheers for their first new classmate, never mind that that classmate has a face that looks like a spell gone wrong. Sansa Stark is grinning and motioning her over, and Shireen gratefully sits beside her and her friends. It isn't until Frey, Olyvar is sorted into Hufflepuff that her breathing evens out and she calms down from the whole ordeal enough for it to hit her.

 

_Me? Gryffindor?_

 

Her heart drops into her stomach. _I rushed the Sorting Hat. It's made a mistake. How long before everyone in Gryffindor finds out I'm not brave at all?_

 

She cranes her head over to look for Tommen, feeling guilty that she missed his Sorting. He's sitting at the Hufflepuff table next to Olyvar Frey, trying to meet her eye and giving her a thumbs up when he does. Shireen smiles shakily back. 

 

"Lannister, Janae" and "Terrance, Lynderly" both join the Slytherins. Shireen watches nervously as Lyanna Mormont strides over to Professor Seaworth. The hat barely touches Lyanna's head before proclaiming "Gryffindor!" and Shireen doesn't know why she bothered being anxious. 

 

Lyanna bounds over and squeezes in between Shireen and Sansa. She throws an arm around Shireen, which feels a bit weird at first. A lot of the time people avoid touching her, like they aren't sure whether she's still contagious (she's not). But Shireen decides that she likes Lyanna's casual and unhesitating affection.

 

A couple of Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw later, Rickon is up. Just like Lyanna, the decision is instantaneous - "Gryffindor!" Sansa is on her feet applauding, like there was ever any doubt, and Arya and Bran are cheering from their respective House tables. Rickon high fives Shireen and Lyanna boisterously before leaping into his sister's arms. Shireen's nerves return. The hat didn't even hesitate before putting Rickon and Lyanna here. 

 

It's hard to be upset when the mood at the Gryffindor tables is so celebratory. Ronald Storm, Rowan Snow, and Ursula Upcliff all make their way to the Gryffindors with much fanfare. Then more food than Shireen has ever seen appears on the table. 

 

Shireen eats quietly and listens to the other first years chatter. While she was having a nervous breakdown, Crowkiller, Alfyn was sorted into Gryffindor. He tells Shireen to call him Alfie and politely avoids staring too long at her scars. He and Rowan Snow know each other already, and are trying to one-up each other with stories of the monsters they've seen up North. (Alfie is from beyond the Wall, so he's winning handily).

 

Once they're all on dessert, Professor Aemon claps his hands and the Great Hall falls silent. 

 

"Welcome to all new and returning students! I have some very exciting announcements - let's start with the first one. If my scrying is correct, our latecomer should be arriving any... moment... now..."

 

The doors to the Great Hall open and in strides Jaime Lannister.

 

The hubbub is immediate. Shireen gapes. Jaime Lannister is notorious for being the member of Minister Aerys's personal guard to turn on him and arrest him for crimes against Westeros - and for using the Unforgivables to subdue him. He had continued to be a famously heroic Auror, until a mission at Harrenhal had resulted in the loss of his wand hand. He hasn't been seen in public in months.

 

Professor Aemon quiets the students down and Jaime Lannister takes his place at the Head Table. "Professor Lannister will be joining us as our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Please join me in welcoming him to our school." There is a polite round of applause. Most of the students are still shocked, either by having such a decorated and controversial figure in their presence, or by the prospect of taking Defence lessons from a teacher who can't use his wand hand.

 

Professor Lannister takes his seat at the table without comment, and the whispers start again. 

 

"And now, for perhaps the most exciting piece of news in recent memory. This year, for the first time in over a century, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament!"

 

The whispers change to a cacophony of excited shouting. Beside Shireen, Sansa pauses with a lemon cake halfway to her mouth. There's a loud bang and everyone's attention returns to the head table. Professor Aemon lowers his wand and clears his throat. "As such, the Free Cities Academy of Magic and the Sunspear School of Sorcery will be joining us shortly before Halloween. At that time, any student of age may enter to be selected as school champion." There are groans from the underage students. Shireen is amused to note that Lyanna is among the disappointed ones. _Only Lyanna would want to enter the Triwizard Tournament after a total of two months of magical education._

 

"Furthermore, there will be no Hogwarts Quidditch this year - " There are indignant gasps from all over the room, and a few seats away from her Loras Tyrell drops his fork with a clatter. "- _because_  there will be an inter-school Quidditch tournament! Try-outs for the Hogwarts team will be this coming weekend, so please see Professor Tarth to sign up. I'm also pleased to announce that we will have a Quidditch celebrity coming to coach seminars for all the participating players."

 

Sansa nudges Loras, grinning, but Loras is deep in his own thoughts, his jaw set in determination.

 

"Now off you trot! Try to get some sleep! Classes start bright and early tomorrow."

 

Shireen scrambles to her feet and finds her way over to Loras where he stands with Alys Karstark, the other seventh year prefect. Together the two lead the group of first years down so many corridors and up so many staircases that Shireen gives up trying to keep track of their route. They finally stop in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who preens a little bit as she looks down at them.

 

"Oooh, new first years! Welcome, welcome, my pets!"

 

"The password is _waterdancer_. We change it every week, though, so don't forget!" Alys says as the portrait hole swings open. They emerge into the Gryffindor common room, where some older students are sitting around in the plush armchairs catching up. Most people seem to have retired to their dormitories, though. Alys leads the girls across the common room and up several winding sets of stairs into a cozy room with its own hearth and a four-poster bed for each of them.

 

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," says Alys, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder. "I can't count the number of times I got lost in my first week here."

 

Alys leaves the girls alone, and although Shireen is still terrified to be in the house of the brave, she finds herself more glad than anything to be with Lyanna. She's certain that if she didn't have a friend in the dorm already, she would have been cornered and questioned about her greyscale as soon as the door closed. _It's happened before._ Instead, as she curls up in the bed in the corner, she feels as though she just might make it at Hogwarts after all. 

 

* * *

 

Sansa is nodding off at the breakfast table when Margaery appears beside her with a coffee. _She's way too chipper for the first morning of classes,_  Sansa thinks belligerently. Her girlfriend kisses her on the cheek and beams. 

 

"How did you sleep, darling?" Sansa grunts in response. "That well, huh? Well drink some Pepper-Up potion or something, because I won't have time to see you until tonight." Sansa pouts. She didn't think she'd see much of Margaery today, between Prefect stuff and the sixteen clubs her girlfriend seems to be president of, but she'd thought they could at least have lunch together.

 

Rickon slides into the seat next to her, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He reaches for Sansa's coffee and she slaps his hand away. Margaery laughs in her stupid, attractive, low, throaty way. "I see being a morning person runs in the family. I'll see you later, Sans. Good luck on your first day, Rickon!" With that she's gone, powerwalking to the doors of the Great Hall and somehow not looking dumb doing it.

 

"Where's the Transfiguration classroom?" Rickon asks, waking up a bit as he shoves eggs in his mouth. Sansa is about to tell him to get lost like all the other first years, but notices Shireen beside him, who is looking at her timetable with thinly-veiled panic. Sansa sighs and looks at her watch. 

 

"Grab your toast to go. I'll walk you there before I head over to Defence."

 

The first year Gryffindors have Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs, so Tommen and Podrick Payne join them on their way out of the Great Hall. Sansa drops them off (with a meaningful look at Rickon and Lyanna that she hopes they interpret as _be subtle for the love of gods_ ) and jogs to the other end of the castle. She slides into the seat Mya and Jeyne have saved for her just as Professor Lannister shuts the classroom door.

 

"Ah, sixth year," he starts, smirking with a lazy sort of mirth. "OWLs are done but NEWTs are still to come, so you start off the year wondering whether this is going to be the ultimate skiv-off year or a year that's _still_ going to kick your arse." There's nervous laughter around the room. "I don't know what the rest of your professors have planned, but the sixth year Defence curriculum is extremely practical. Lots of dueling techniques and offensive spells. So," he says, turning to the blackboard. "I thought we'd start the term with a little chat."

 

No one in the class has the courage to groan. And then everyone is silent for an entirely different reason as Professor Lannister waves his wand at the blackboard and the words "Defence Against the Dark Arts" appear in large block letters. _He used his left hand._ Sansa tries not to goggle. _No one thought he'd be able to do spellwork ever again._  Her attention is drawn to the golden hand protruding from his right sleeve. _They say it wasn't even a spell that took it off. That it was a real blade._

"Let's start with some basics, shall we?" Sansa's attention is brought back to the lesson as Professor Lannister hops up to sit on his desk. "What are the Dark Arts? That sounds like the kind of ridiculous trick question someone unbearably pretentious would ask, but bear with me."

 

Giggles break the silence. Professor Lannister raises an eyebrow. "The, um, _other_  Professor Lannister started the term with exactly that question," Harold Hardying says.

 

Professor Lannister barks a laugh.

 

" _Extremely_  typical of my brother. Well, let's review then. The Dark Arts - what are they?"

 

Raynald Westerling raises his hand. "The Unforgivables." Professor Lannister nods and waves his wand to add it to the board. 

 

"Most blood magic," offers Mya.

 

"Dark creatures," says Barra Flowers. "Werewolves and shapeshifters and the like." Sansa keeps her face carefully composed, although inside she is bristling. 

 

A few other students contribute, and Professor Lannister dutifully adds their suggestions to the board. "Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that you can do plenty of harm with pretty run-of-the-mill spells - or even spells that are intended for good. I once arrested a wizard who would stitch his victims' mouths shut with spells meant for healing." A shudder runs through the class. "Intent is everything. Black and white labels aren't a substitute for a well-developed moral compass."

 

Professor Lannister hops off the desk and paces at the front of the room. Sansa is drawn in despite herself, despite the fact that she knows his secret, despite not knowing whether or not he had a part in her father's arrest. He's magnetic. _Even though I'm not sure_ at all _where his own "moral compass" is at._

 

"Most of the time that's how it goes, in fact. Pretty much any medicine is helpful in small quantities, and harmful in larger ones. Easy to 'accidentally' poison someone. Pretty much any kind of transfiguration can be used for harm, especially if it leaves the person unable to reverse the spell. Hard to dispel something if you're a teapot. Use the Confundus charm on someone while they're on a precipice and down they go. And that's just a few examples. _But_. You know that. We're not here to get creative about all the many ways we can use household spells to commit murder." This gets him another laugh.

 

"Let's look at the other end of things then. Under what circumstances would it be suitable to use the so-called Dark Arts? For _good_ , rather than... evil."

 

The silence in the room becomes charged. Everyone knows Jaime Lannister's most infamous deed. Even those who had been ready to impeach Aerys Targaryen, like Sansa's father, condemn Jaime for his actions. _Dad was glad that Aerys didn't get a chance to hurt all those people. But he's always disapproved of Jaime for breaking his vows as Aerys's protector, and for using Unforgivable curses._

 

"Um... you could use... blood magic for protection?" Jeyne says weakly.

 

Professor Lannister nods and adds it to the board, his green cat eyes watchful, waiting. No one else is bold enough to venture an answer.

 

"What if you had no choice? What if the... person you needed to stop was shielded to the teeth, and you needed to use something unblockable? What if he was decades your senior and could beat you in a fight with his eyes closed, unless you did something he'd never expect from you? What if the safety of thousands and thousands of people was at stake and you had just once chance to stop it?" Professor Lannister's expression is no longer playful. The students are mute with fear.

 

"What if the Minister was going to use Fiendfyre to torch the Wizengamot and all of King's Landing around it?" Sansa surprises herself when she speaks. 

 

Professor Lannister throws his head back and laughs. It's uncomfortably brittle. "I knew I could count on someone from my old house. Yes. I broke his focus with the Cruciatus. Then I used the Imperius to subdue him while more Aurors came - to arrest us both. The new Minister saw fit to give me time served, as I was responsible for him still having a Ministry to be in charge of." Professor Lannister stands in front of his desk, very still. "This term you'll be learning spells that can cause a great deal of damage. And in just two years, you'll be going out into the world, where you'll have more choices in front of you than you've ever had." He smiles that lazy smile again. "As your professor, I feel that I have the responsibility to make sure that you have at least some capacity to _think_  about those choices. Life is a lot more complicated than the Good Wizard Handbook makes it out to be."

 

With a flick of his wand, the blackboard erases itself. "Take off early today. For next class I want a foot of parchment on whether you think I'm a Dark Wizard and why. Don't pull any punches - I want to see you use your brains. Then we'll get to the good stuff."

 

"Oh, and Stark," he calls as they're all leaving. "Five points to Gryffindor."

 

* * *

The intoxicating smell of flowers fills the courtyard, and Sansa tries to let it soothe her as she steps onto the moonlit patio of their courtyard. She knows what Margaery wants to talk to her about, and she's dreading it. 

 

The girl in question is already there, her back turned to Sansa, looking up at the stars. _Tomorrow night is the full moon._ Sansa feels the power of it thrumming inside of her. 

 

"Hey," Sansa calls softly. Margaery starts but then turns, grinning excitedly. She crosses the courtyard in a few quick strides and throws her arms around Sansa. Sansa grips her tightly, enjoying how grounded she feels with the smaller girl pulled close. 

 

Margaery pulls back and kisses Sansa lightly on the lips. " _Finally,_ some time alone." She leads Sansa over to a bench and straddles it facing her. Sansa sits cross-legged and smiles at her girlfriend in a way she hopes looks natural instead of forced.

 

"I feel like I already know what's on your mind, but tell me anyway."

 

Margaery smirks without a hint of shame. "I guess it's a given that when a competition is announced I'll want to enter. Particularly one as prestigious as this. I could be the first Triwizard winner in two hundred years. That's a way more exciting accomplishment than being Head Girl."

 

"The reason there hasn't been a tournament in two hundred years is because too many students were dying. Often in horrifying ways," Sansa points out. 

 

"Last June you took on a chimaera, a creature not bested by any human, magical or nonmagical, since antiquity. You're going to lecture me about safety?" Margaery's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. 

 

Sansa's mouth snaps shut. _Best not to make the point that I'm not precisely human, and she's fully human and terrifyingly fragile._

 

"Anyway. I'm the top student in my year. _And_ I have the athleticism for the tasks because of Quidditch. I have tons of specialized knowledge from working at the apothecary... I feel sure that I can rise up to anything they throw at me."

 

_That's what all the other champions thought, too. Margaery's amazing, but she isn't invincible._  Ever since visiting Azkaban, Sansa can't get the memory of how Margaery's blood had smelled out of her head, such a vivid sensory recollection that sometimes she feels like she's drowning in it. _That chimaera was_ hunting _her. It could have killed her._

"Today Professor Seaworth told us that all three schools are currently tied for wins. Whoever takes it this year will be the tiebreaking champion, and one school will pull ahead for the first time in centuries." Margaery's is fairly glowing with excitement, so much so that Sansa can _almost_  share her enthusiasm.

 

_But how do I let her go alone into danger, where I can't follow? I know now how easily and how suddenly the ones you love can be taken from you, and what it costs to get them back._ She thinks of her father in Azkaban, that place of oppressive horror, and feels the terror clawing up her throat. _All he did was make one mistake._

 

Margaery continues on, heedless of Sansa's mounting discomfort. "I looked it up - the number of female champions has historically been incredibly low. I don't think it's because of lack of skill on the part of witches. Those that enter in the first place are self-selected, and I think girls were discouraged from doing so. How incredible would it be to represent Hogwarts in a new era of equality? And encourage women not to allow themselves to be limited in their opportunities?"

 

It does sound good. It sounds amazing, actually, and exactly the kind of thing that Margaery would excel at. Both at doing the challenges themselves, and at being a role model for young witches everywhere. Margaery is exactly the kind of extraordinary person who deserves to lead their generation of girls in the direction of courage and autonomy. Sansa thinks of Margaery's acceptance of her skinchanging, and how on board she's been with everything from infiltrating Azkaban to breaking into the Red Keep. _She has never tried to stop me. Only supported me._

 

Margaery is looking at Sansa with a light in her eyes that Sansa hasn't seen since she was denied Head Girl. _This is her nature. Just like the wolf is mine._

 

"How can I help?"

* * *

 

Bran flies around the turrets, dipping and diving better than any broom. The raven whose mind he shares is content to sit back and enjoy the ride, and so Bran takes his time re-familiarizing himself with Hogwarts. He wings over to the Astronomy Tower, where three separate couples have all tried to stake a claim, but the ensuing standoff doesn't keep his attention. _More, more, more,_  he thinks, his raven brain still hungry for adrenaline. He spends some more time looping and rolling before he's calm enough to think more logically.

 

_Let's have a look at what our new professor is up to..._

Bran soars down to the east wing of the school and perches at the window of the Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom. Luckily for him, it's open, and he can see and hear clearly as Professor Lannister marks homework at his desk. He's muttering to himself, and Bran realizes with amusement that he's very quietly reading aloud to himself. _Did you have anything to do with our dad going to prison? Or was that all your sister's doing?_   Bran wonders. _Do you even know for certain that her children are yours?_

There's a knock at the door. "Enter!" Calls Professor Lannister. The door opens slowly to reveal Myrcella Baratheon. 

 

"Hi Professor," she says, shutting the door behind her. Professor Lannister grins at her.

 

"No need to be so formal, Myrcella. It's just you and me."

 

Myrcella tilts her head, her green eyes unreadable. 

 

"Should I call you Father, then?"

 

_Oh, fuck._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait on this chapter! If you haven't noticed already, Loras and Margaery are twins. They were supposed to be their canon ages/birth order originally, but this story didn't exist originally when I started writing this series (it was supposed to stop at Tame as the Wild Ones). I love Loras so much that I needed him to be at Hogwarts for this! Thanks so much for reading, folks.


	7. The Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Sorry for the wait! Content warning for abuse/manipulation in Dany's scene. Viserys is in it and he's a jerk as usual. Thanks for reading!

Myrcella watches Jaime's face freeze. He casts _Muffliato_ and sits heavily in his chair, motioning for her to take a seat across from him. She crosses one leg over the other and puts both hands on the armrests, tapping her fingers against them. She's fully aware of how much she looks like her mother, and hopes it puts him even more off-kilter.

 

"What do you know?" Jaime asks finally, exhaling heavily.

 

Myrcella shakes her head. "I know that you want to know that so you can decide how much to tell me," she says. "I'm not an idiot. No, you're going to start from the beginning."

 

Jaime sighs. He takes off his golden hand and massages his forearm. Myrcella stares. She's never seen him without his prosthetic on. Her mother and her grandfather have made it very clear how little they want to see him that way.

 

"Your mother and I... had a very close relationship out entire lives. Closer than was deemed appropriate."

 

" _Deemed_  appropriate?"

 

"Closer than _was_  appropriate," Jaime grinds out, and Myrcella can tell that he doesn't quite believe it. "We... I don't know. I don't know how to explain why we did what we did. But I love her. And not as a brother should."

 

_Maybe you did it because your family was toxic and insular?_ Myrcella fights to keep eye contact and to control her expression. She tries to imagine having romantic feelings for Joffrey and can't stomach it. 

 

"She and your - she and Robert couldn't stand each other from the start. Theirs was one of the last true no-choice-in-the-matter arranged marriages. So Cersei and I continued our affair. She couldn't stand to bear Robert's children. She... had mine instead."

 

"So you _knew_ ," Myrcella says, blotches of red on her cheeks. She wills herself to keep control, to avoid raising her voice.

 

Jaime nods.

 

"And you were still never around! You left us there in that house, with an alcoholic and - well, with two alcoholics. Two alcoholics who _hate_ each other. Joffrey is a _sociopath_. Tommen is afraid of his own shadow! What is _wrong_ with you?"

 

Jaime flinches at every word. Myrcella immediately regrets her outburst. _He'll get angry, like Father, and then I'll be in for it._  But when he answers, his voice is thick. 

 

"Cersei wouldn't let me. She was afraid if people saw us together, they would figure out the truth. She... wouldn't even let me hold you when you were born."

 

"And that was acceptable to you? So you could just have your happy little affair and not worry about your children? I'm surprised you took a position at Hogwarts. Mother's at home all alone - the two of you could play house."

 

"We aren't... our affair is at an end," Jaime says stiffly. "When I went to Harrenhal we... hadn't seen each other in months. And then this - " he holds up his right arm "- happened. We argued, and we... decided to break things off. For good."

 

Myrcella chews on that for a moment. "What did you fight about?"

 

Jaime hesitates. "We had been growing apart. But in the end we fought about what to do about you. The children. Ned Stark wasn't the only one with suspicions about your parentage." Jaime runs a hand through his hair. "I wanted to claim you as my own. I wanted all of us to run away to Essos together. But your mother wouldn't go."

 

"That's one thing that checks out, at least," Myrcella says dryly, remembering her own efforts to get her mother to relocate. "So. What are you doing here, then?"

 

Jaime takes a deep breath. "Would you believe me if I said it was to be close to you and your brothers?"

 

Myrcella stands up, her chair scraping harshly on the floor.

 

"No."

 

* * *

Loras pulls up, panting, Professor Tarth blows her whistle. _Seventeen catches,_ he thinks, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. He knows he's done better than anyone else, especially that wank Joffrey. Margaery isn't trying out, dead set as she is on being Triwizard champion. It doesn't stop her from attending, though, cheering raucously at every drill Loras completes. 

 

The rest of the Seeker hopefuls retire to the locker rooms, but Loras stays in the stands to watch the Chasers try out. Professor Tarth has had them trying different combinations of players all day. It's important to find not only the best individual players, but the ones with the most chemistry together. So far Arya, Myrcella, and Missandei are proving to be quite the powerhouse.

 

Professor Tarth calls for a break and Loras notices that Professor Lannister is among the onlookers. She greets him, a bit stiffly.

 

"How go the try-outs, w - er, Professor?"

 

"Well, so far. Can I help you, Professor Lannister?"

 

Jaime motions vaguely to the Chasers on break. "Just here to watch my niece, you know." Myrcella glares at him over her water bottle. It's awkward. 

 

Professor Tarth must think so, too, because she motions the Chasers back into the air and turns her back on him. Lannister's face falls a bit when Myrcella doesn't acknowledge him, and Loras wonders what that's all about.

 

"Hey, Loras. Good flying." Loras turns around. It's Damon Flowers, a Muggleborn from a couple years below him in Gryffindor. Loras had tutored him in Herbology the year before.

 

"Thanks. I'm excited! Tarth should be able to put together a pretty good team."

 

"That's awesome. I wish I knew how to play better. Not much chance to fly after lessons in first year, and even fewer to play Quidditch. Especially if you don't have a broom."

 

Loras frowns. He'd never thought of that. Even if students wanted to play, the school brooms were mostly death traps.

 

"Would you play? If you could?"

 

Damon hesitates. "Maybe. I don't even really know how, though."

 

Loras taps his chin with his forefinger. He's still deep in thought after he and Damon say their goodbyes and Margaery finds him.

 

"You were incredible, of course," Margaery says, smirking. She raises an eyebrow at his pensive look.

 

"I never really thought about people wanting to play Quidditch but not being able to." Loras fills her in on his conversation with Damon. Margaery gets that calculating look he knows so well.

 

"I think I might have an idea," she says. "How did the rest of the tryouts go?"

 

"Good - Chasers look strong. And Gendry's a shoo-in for Keeper, I think." Loras lets his eyes stray back to Lannister and gestures with his head. 

 

Margaery follows his gaze with interest. Lannister is standing a little apart from everyone else, looking aloof. But Loras thinks that maybe his aloofness is a mask for discomfort, after the way Myrcella reacted to him being there. 

 

Professor Tarth announces a brief recess while final decisions are made, and Loras and Margaery lounge around in the stands with the other students to wait. They haven't seen much of each other this week, with try-outs looming, so it's nice to catch up. She seems to be handling not being Head Girl a lot better now that the Triwizard Tournament has been announced, which Loras is glad for. 

 

Professor Tarth reappears, clip board in hand. "Alright, everyone. Thank you to everyone who tried out - I saw a lot of hard work and a lot of potential out there. Unfortunately, we only have room to fill a first and reserve spot for each position. Good luck next time to those who didn't make the cut." She clears her throat. "The first-string Chasers will be Arya Stark, Missandei of Naath, and Myrcella Baratheon." Professor Lannister applauds, smiling with sincere pride. Myrcella doesn't acknowledge him. "The reserves will be Ronald Storm, Maric Seaworth, and Lucas Blackwood."

 

Loras nods along with Tarth's list. _That's the team I would pick,_  he thinks. _The reserves are solid, too._

 

"The Beaters will be Mya Stone and Meera Reed. The reserves will be Perra Frey and Owen Norrey."

 

Loras punches Mya's shoulder. Only fitting that the Gryffindor dream team would represent in the Hogwarts All-Star team. 

 

"Gendry Waters will be the Keeper, with Larence Snow as the reserve. The Seeker will be Loras Tyrell, with Eleyna Westerling as reserve."

 

Margaery throws her arms around Loras, who can't stop himself from grinning. The moment is interrupted by a commotion at the foot of the stands. 

 

"You can't _possibly_ be serious!" It's Joffrey Baratheon, of course. "Putting that _mudblood_  on the team over me?" Loras fights his way over to Eleyna, a tiny fourth-year Hufflepuff half-blood, and puts his hand on her shoulder. _Although, with our family history, I'm not exactly sure who his insult was directed towards,_ Loras thinks wryly.

 

"Mr. Baratheon, I will not tolerate that kind of language on my pitch," Professor Tarth says, eyes blazing. 

 

"And I won't tolerate being treated like I'm less than I'm worth, you ugly bitch!"

 

_"Joffrey!"_ The crowd parts for Professor Lannister, who is looking equal parts shaken and livid. But Joffrey is already almost at Loras and Eleyna. Loras steps in front of the small girl. Professor Tarth disarms him and his wand flies out of his pocket, but Joffrey doesn't look like he had ever intended to use it. Loras puts his hands up and gets ready for Joffrey to throw the first punch. 

 

Joffrey collapses bonelessly in front of him instead, revealing Myrcella behind him with her wand in her hand. Loras shoots her a grin, and Professor Lannister just gapes at her from where he stands uselessly ten feet away. 

 

"Would you mind taking Joffrey to the castle, Professor Lannister? I'll deal with him once I'm done here," Professor Tarth says, unfazed. Lannister breaks his gaze away from Myrcella and nods, levitating Joffrey away from the pitch. His expression is tight.

 

"Now that that's dealt with, I can also announce that Loras Tyrell will be the Captain, and Arya Stark will be the Assistant Captain. Congratulations to the new team!"

 

There's a good round of cheering and applause, despite the many disappointed faces. Loras hangs back with Arya to collect his Captain's badge from Professor Tarth. She smiles at him with kind eyes, and he wants to tell her that she isn't ugly at all, or that her face is the least interesting thing about her, anyway. But he's only seventeen, and he feels like he'll just make things more awkward. So he says, "I promise I'll work as hard as I can for you, Coach."

 

Professor Tarth brightens. _Maybe that_ was _the right thing to say._

 

* * *

September passes in a flurry of activity for Sansa. Between her days spent in classes and her nights spent in the woods, Sansa's barely had time to breathe. _Things will get better as Rickon and Lyanna learn their way into and out of the castle discreetly. I'll have to worry a lot less._

 

And her classes, while demanding, have been interesting. Transfiguration is a breeze as always, but doing more animal transfiguration this year has meant that lessons at least keep more of Sansa's attention. Her Ancient Runes tutorial has been excellent, and Sansa already has several projects in mind that can incorporate the runes of the First Men with some from across the Narrow Sea. 

 

She has to admit, grudgingly, that the best class so far this term has been Defense with Professor Lannister. He's been true to his word about running an intensely practical class, and Sansa thinks she might actually be falling behind if it weren't for the intensive training they do in the North. _Who knew that the constant threat of being overrun by monsters would actually be good for my grades?_

 

Lannister hasn't lost his philosophical approach to the subject, though. Sansa can't deny that it's effective. Students carry on conversations about the ethics around different spellwork, the consequences of inaction, and a dozen different subjects long after they leave his classroom. It's not uncommon for an issue raised in class to be the subject of lunchtime conversation. Sansa still doesn't trust him, but she's beginning to respect him despite herself. 

 

She's even coming to terms with Margaery's decision to enter the Triwizard Tournament. _Well. I'm trying to gain some sense of control by poring over every rule and precedent for the tournament so I'll be able to help her as much as I can._ So - she's moreso _coping with_ than really _accepting_ the decision. She counts it as a win anyway.

 

Her nights in the woods let her blow off some of that anxious energy, at least. It's their second full moon together, and Lyanna is fitting in with the Stark pack perfectly. Sansa watches as Lyanna appears out of no where and launches herself at Rickon, bowling him over. The two of them somersault across the clearing until they hit a tree with a decisive _thud_. Bear and wolf get to their feet woozily, just in time for Arya to leap out of the trees at them and send them sprawling all over again. Sansa howls joyfully at the moon. Her father is alive, Cersei is at an impasse, and the world feels full of dark wonder.

 

Sansa waits at the edge of the forest, keeping watch while the rest of the Starks plus Lyanna find their way back to the school one by one. Lyanna, thankfully, takes keeping her secret seriously, and Sansa knows that she can trust Alys Karstark to help cover for her if necessary. _It's sneaking around the rest of the time that's going to get them into trouble._ Loras has already had to bail Rickon and his cronies out twice.

 

The full moon is bathing the grounds in light, and Sansa wishes Margaery were here with her. She crosses the grounds carefully, moving from shadow to shadow. She enters the castle through a secret passage obscured by creeping vines and changes into the shorts and t-shirt she has stashed there before setting off to find Margaery.

 

She spots Margaery in the fourth-floor corridor, doing the world's worst job of patrolling with Loras. Sansa watches in amusement as they lazily kick open cupboard doors and flick tapestries away from the wall. Using her best predator-stealth skills, Sansa creeps up behind them and snakes her arms around Margaery's waist.

 

Margaery just barely contains her shriek, and Loras immediately whips his wand out to point it at Sansa. Sansa has it out of his hand before he can do anything. Loras is remarkable, but no match for full-moon reflexes. She tosses it back and grins down at Margaery, who is craning her neck back and looking up at Sansa in disbelief.

 

"What the hells, Stark?" Loras says, his expression warring between annoyed and impressed. Sansa just gives him a smirk to rival his sister's. 

 

"Can I borrow Margaery, Loras?" 

 

Loras raises an eyebrow. "So you can whisk her off to the Astronomy Tower?"

 

Sansa purses her lips. "I don't think so. It's probably standing room only on a night like tonight."

 

Margaery laughs, and the two of them leave Loras standing there with his hands on his hips, pretending to fume. "So where _are_  you taking me, if not to the Astronomy Tower?" Margaery asks.

 

Sansa tilts her head, thinking. "Somewhere... less trafficked, I think." She hops onto a floating staircase and holds out her arms to catch Margaery as she jumps the gap. They take it to the fifth floor, where Sansa finds a richly detailed landscape of the North hanging in a gilded frame. She blows gently on a fir tree and the painting swings open to reveal a passage. They head up a narrow spiral staircase and come out a trap door at the top of an old tower. The stars are brilliant above them, and Sansa laughs into the night. 

 

Margaery closes the trap door behind them, and Sansa climbs onto the stone wall. She leaps from one crenelation to another, stopping every so often to howl. She feels free for the first time in a long time. Like everything is going to be okay. Margaery laughs from below her.

 

"What's gotten into you tonight?"

 

Sansa jumps down to land in front of Margaery and leans back against the stone wall. She shrugs.

 

"The moon, I guess. It makes me feel strong, like I can take on anything. And connected to things in a way that reassures me that whatever is happening, the moon will still rise, the trees will still grow... that kind of thing."

 

Margaery smiles, her expression far away for a moment. "That sounds wonderful."

 

"Yeah. Well, it lasts for a couple of days and then I'm back to the same anxious mess."

 

Margaery laughs, the sound cutting through the still night air. She beckons Sansa over the edge of the tower, where the battlements have crumbled away to nothing. They have a perfect view of the moon over the lake. They dangle their legs over, feeling daring, and Sansa wraps an arm around Margaery's shoulders. She takes a deep breath.

 

"Working with Devil's Snare?" Sansa asks, sniffing.

 

"Mmm. Willas is experimenting with a new treatment for Greyscale. It looks like the same properties that cause Devil's Snare to grow so rapidly might actually help _stop_  the spread of diseases that attack tissues in humans."

 

Sansa grins at Margaery in awe. "You're so good at this stuff. Did you ever think of going into it after Hogwarts, like Willas? Or has your heart always been set on Minister for Magic?"

 

"I... don't know. I think a lot of the plans I had have been falling through lately. And I'm not totally sure it's a bad thing. Who knows whether I would have been able to even think about entering the tournament with the responsibilities of being Head Girl?" Margaery stretches, craning her neck to look at the stars overhead. "Honestly? I'm beginning to kind of be okay with not knowing exactly what's going to happen next year."

 

"Yeah?"

 

Margaery swings her legs up and lays on her back, pulling Sansa with her. 

 

"Mmm. Maybe the full moon is affecting me, too." Margaery rests her head in the crook of Sansa's arm. "Look - the Pegasus. My favourite constellation."

 

"We call it the Thestral in the North," Sansa says, smirking.

 

"Ugh. Of course you do."

 

"There's the Firebird."

 

"The Swan? Well - I guess it could be a Firebird."

 

"Ooh! There's the Tower!"

 

"In the South it's the Charioteer."

 

Sansa turns to face Margaery, propping herself up on her arm. "What? There's not even - I mean, point me to the bit that even _slightly_  resembles a wheel."

 

"Well it's an awfully squat tower, I think," Margaery huffs. But she's laughing with her eyes. 

 

Sansa's retort dies on her lips as she looks down at Margaery in the moonlight. She can see Margaery swallow.

 

"You have that look," Margaery says breathily.

 

"What look?"

 

"The one where it looks like you're going to consume me."

 

Sansa watches Margaery's face carefully for any signs of fear. The other girl just smiles. 

 

"The full moon does tend to bring out a bit of... wildness," Sansa admits, letting the wolf come out a little bit more. She can smell the salt of Margaery's skin, hear the pulse in her neck. 

 

"Oh?"

 

Sansa nips playfully at the hollow of Margaery's throat and she yelps, then moans as Sansa sucks a mark into the same spot. Sansa kisses her slowly, tangling a hand in the rich hair fanned out around Margaery's head. She becomes acutely aware of every place their bodies touch. She pulls back and observes the breathless girl below her. Sansa waits for another quip, but Margaery seems to have run out for the moment. 

 

The night is clear and cold and bright. _It's the kind of night to be spent running through the woods, or weaving a spell, or kissing a lover,_  Sansa thinks.

_It's a night for wolves_.

 

* * *

 

Arianne says a stiff goodbye to her father and turns to join her classmates. They're climbing into carriages, chattering excitedly. She's been to Hogwarts before, but many of the Sunspear students have never been to the Crownlands. She can see Trystane a ways away, buzzing with excitement at the prospect of spending almost an entire school year with Myrcella. 

 

She looks back at where Quentyn is saying his goodbye to their father and bristles. The two of them have been thick as thieves all summer, plotting about the power vacuum left in the Ministry. To be fair, Quentyn doesn't seem like he relishes being involved in these machinations one bit, but Arianne is still resentful. _Why would he groom Quentyn to take his seat on the Wizengamot? I'm the eldest, and he passes me over?_

 

Arianne makes her way over to where her cousins Elia and Tyene beckon, veering sharply to avoid Aegon. If Quentyn has been uncomfortable with her father and uncle's sudden attention, Aegon has been basking in it. His head has gotten even bigger over the summer, which she didn't think was possible, and he won't stop boasting about how he's going to be Triwizard champion.

 

_Not if I have anything to say about it,_ Arianne thinks determinedly.

 

She tips her head up to take in the Dornish sun one last time, as though she can store it up for the year ahead. She reaches up and plucks an orange from an overhanging branch. 

 

_It's time for me to make my own opportunities._

 

* * *

 

There's a warm wind blowing through the window of Dany's room, making the loose parchment that she's trying to wrangle flutter around the room. She finally gets all of it in a neat stack and puts it in her trunk. The other girls have already boarded the ship for Westeros, but Dany had stolen off earlier to say goodbye to her dragons. 

 

She grins as she finally gets her trunk closed, excited beyond measure for the Triwizard Tournament. She can't think of a better way to spend her last year of school than an adventure abroad.  

 

_And then... who knows?_

 

Once Dany was done school, she'd be of age, and she'd be able to do anything she wanted instead of getting shuffled from one Free City to another with her brother. _I don't care what people think of my father - we probably share the same opinion, for the most part. I'm sick of being in exile. And I'm coming home._

 

The only real constant in her life has been Viserys. _And he's a... less than stable constant._  Viserys had always been bitter and controlling and quick to anger, but things had gotten much worse in the five years since he'd graduated. When he was in school, he'd spoken of nothing but triumphantly returning to Westeros one day and becoming the youngest Minister for Magic the world had ever seen. But that dream had never materialized. He spent most of his time drinking their inheritance away with more and more unsavoury characters and talking about a return to King's Landing that so far showed no signs of actually happening.

 

Every summer, Dany could see Viserys becoming more and more hostile towards her as she got older. He would forbid her from seeing their family in Dorne, and try to keep her from her dragons for long periods of time. It was no great secret that Magister Illyrio only suffered Viserys's continued presence in his home because he cared about Dany. He would have been well within his rights to kick them both out once Viserys was an adult and had guardianship over his sister, and Dany thanked the gods every day that he hadn't. _And not only for myself. I don't know where Viserys would be now, or if he'd even still be alive, if he hadn't had Magister Illyrio to count on._

 

Viserys is still her only real family, the only person in the world obligated to care about her.

 

Dany doesn't know what will happen once she graduates, though. She suspects that Viserys doesn't either, and that it might account for his increasingly erratic behaviour.

 

As though summoned, Viserys appears in her doorway. He is drunk and dishevelled, but for once he is smiling. 

 

"Sister," he says, swaying a bit. "I've come to bid you farwell."

 

Dany gets up from her bed and puts her trunk between them, just in case. "Goodbye, Viserys. Have a nice year."

 

"Oh, I _will._ Now that Robert Baratheon... _the usurper_... is no more. There is no Minister. No leader in Westeros. Now is our time, Dany. _This_ is what I've been waiting for!"

 

_I've heard that oh, a dozen or so times before,_  Dany thinks. She keeps her face carefully blank.

 

"This is my chance to gain true power!" Viserys says fiercely, coming a few steps into the room. "This is my chance, finally, to come back and rule Westeros, as our family did for generations!"

 

Viserys was right that the Targaryens had held the most power for quite a long time. But that had been possible because most of the Great Houses had been too at odds with each other to form any kind of competing power, and the Northern and Southron houses didn't bother with one another. The Stark-Baratheon-Lannister alliance had changed the climate completely. But Dany knows her brother isn't thinking straight. Maybe isn't even capable of thinking straight anymore.

 

"Then... we should consolidate our power, maybe. I'm sure that Aegon and Rhaenys will have a strong alliance with the Martells. We should back them up. Maybe they have someone in mind for Minister who can help you rise to power when you're a bit older."

 

Viserys grabs a book from her shelf and throws it at her, eyes wild. It narrowly misses her. "I will _not_  put my claim behind my niece and nephew's! They can support me if they wish. I'd just as soon they didn't. Father was right. There's too much of Dorne in them."

 

"Then who will support you, Viserys? We have no influence left in Westeros, if you discount Dorne."

 

"All we need to gain influence is gold," Viserys says. His face has turned predatory.

 

_And what gold do we have?_ Dany knows what Viserys's friends call him behind his back. _The Beggar King._ Most of their family's money is held in trust by the Martells until Aegon comes of age, since Rhaegar had been the eldest son. Viserys and Dany live on Magister Illyrio's charity and the dwindling money left from their parents' trust. Viserys won't even speak to Rhaenys and Aegon anymore - he sees himself and Dany as the last real Targaryens, more pure of blood than their Dornish relations, and resents that he doesn't command the Targaryen fortune.

 

"All we need to gain gold," Viserys continues, coming close enough that he can take Dany's face in his hands, "is you. I've made a list of wealthy lords from the Free Cities that you can marry when you're done school. That will give me all the money I need to buy the loyalty of the Wizengamot."

 

"I not going to let you marry me off to some old man with a pile of gold, Viserys!" Dany says, jerking away from her brother. Viserys goes very still, and his voice goes soft.

 

"You will. And why, Dany? Because I'm all you have. We're in this together, you and I. Don't make the mistake of thinking that anyone else wants you."

 

Dany doesn't let herself cry. 

 

* * *

 

Margaery slides into her seat in the advanced Ancient Runes tutorial she shares with Sansa, bearing the coffee that she knows her girlfriend will need to make it through the class. Margaery is close to starting her own day with the beverage. She's been studying hard at any subject that could possibly be useful for the upcoming tournament. Physical exhaustion is setting in as well; Leonette, Garlan, and Willas had come through with a donation of new school brooms, and Loras had been holding weekly Quidditch friendlies. 

 

Missandei comes in, early as usual. She gives Margaery one of her small smiles. Missandei is in sixth year, like Sansa. And like Sansa, she's taking NEWT level Runes because she comes from a place where kids learn runes at the same time as their letters. ("We don't call them Ancient Runes in the North," Sansa had told her once, smirking. "They're just _runes_.")

 

"You must be excited to see your old classmates today," Margaery says, moving her books over to make space.

 

Missandei grins. "It'll be so weird to have them all _here_ , at Hogwarts, but I'm excited."

 

"Why did you switch schools, anyway?" Lucas Blackwood asks. Margaery cringes at his lack of tact.

 

"I got a scholarship," Missandei says matter-of-factly. "Coming here meant that my cousin could go to University for curse-breaking."

 

_Huh,_  Margaery thinks. _That must be Garlan and Leonette's scholarship._ She smiles. _Team Good-for-Nothing scores again._

Sansa hurries in just before the bell, having had a lunch time study session with Myrcella. Margaery kisses her on the cheek and puts her coffee in her hands. She's rewarded with one of Sansa's shy smiles. They have a project due at the end of the week, so Professor Wode gives them class time to work on translating texts from Old Valyrian. Sansa nudges Margaery. 

 

"Excited?"

 

Margaery grins. "I'm ready. This year is going to be incredible. Loras won't shut up about how well the Quidditch team is doing."

 

"I can't remember the last time I saw Arya this pumped. I didn't know how much she'd enjoy the responsibility of being Assistant Captain, but she's taken to it like a fish to water. I guess that's why Professor Tarth is the coach and not me - she has an eye for this kind of stuff."

 

They spend the rest of the period deep in their work, but everyone is so excited about the arrival of the delegations from Sunspear and Essos that they begin to lose focus and Professor Wode dismisses them to drop their things off in their dormitories ten minutes early. Margaery makes it back from the dungeons to the Entrance Hall in record time, and stands with Elinor and Arya in the Slytherin section of the orderly line-up on the grounds.

 

Sunspear is first. They arrive in carriages drawn by pegasi that drift down from the clouds and skid to a stop in front of the Entrance hall. Margaery recognizes Oberyn Martell, the headmaster, and reminds herself that Willas forgave him for their unfortunate duel years ago. He leaps down from the driver's seat of the head carriage and strides up to shake Professor Aemon's hand. Margaery has to admit he's good-looking - _if you're in to that kind of thing_  - but still joins Arya in rolling her eyes at Elinor when she swoons at him. Students come pouring out of the carriages, dressed in loose clothing in vibrant colours. Margaery recognizes Arianne Martell with a group of girls that looks enough like her that they must be her cousins. 

 

"Professor Aemon!" Martell bellows, shaking their Headmaster's hand warmly. "What a pleasure it is to be here."

 

Professor Aemon's reply is cut off by the loud gasps of the students as the Free Cities delegation arrives. A huge ship emerges, seemingly from the depths of the lake, students scrambling about on rigging and rushing around on the decks. Margaery watches in awe as a fleet of small boats carries the students from the anchored ship to shore. Professor Aemon introduces their headmaster as Jaqen H'ghar. Margaery knows the name; he's a dueling champion that Arya talks about often. His hair is striking - one half white and one half red. 

 

"A man is honoured to present his students to Hogwarts," he says in his queer Lorathi way of speaking. 

 

The students all bustle into the Great Hall. The tables have been elongated to fit the influx of people. The Essosi students join the Slytherins, and Missandei greets a silver-haired girl who must be Daenerys Targaryen by leaping into her arms. The Dornish students head over to the Gryffindor table. Arianne and her cousins make a beeline for Sansa, and the girls embrace enthusiastically. Food appears on the tables and Margaery makes idle conversation with Renly while trying not to scope out the foreign students too obviously.

 

Professor Aemon stands up as they finish their meal and claps his hands for attention. 

 

"On behalf of all our students and staff, welcome to Hogwarts! I know that we are all looking forward to making you feel very at home for the rest of the school year. It is my honour and privilege to announce the commencement of the Triwizard Tournament! As well as Headmasters H'ghar, Martell, and myself, the panel of judges will include the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Petyr Baelish - " a small man that Margaery recognizes from Sansa description as Littlefinger waves from the Head Table "- and our guest from Essos, Tycho Nestoris, of the Iron Bank of Braavos." Nestoris has a beard that reaches his belt, and a narrow, cunning face. "The Iron Bank has sponsored the competition, and the winner will be awarded a prize of one thousand galleons." A few seats away, Margaery notices Daenerys straighten with attention.

 

"Lord Baelish and Mr. Nestoris have designed three tasks to be undertaken by the champions, which will be spaced throughout the school year. The champions will be chosen by an impartial judge - the Goblet of Fire." Students crane their necks to see as Professor Aemon reaches into a small trunk and pulls out a weathered wooden goblet with blue flames emerging. 

 

"Students who are of age have the next twenty-four hours to place a piece of parchment with their name and school into the goblet. The champions will be announced tomorrow at the Halloween Feast. A word of warning, however: the tournament is challenging and dangerous, and the champions are bound by a magical contract to see it through to its end." Margaery glances towards the Gryffindor table, and sees that Sansa's face is tight with worry for a moment before she smooths her features. 

 

"The Inter-School Quidditch tournament will also commence. Good luck to all of our participants. Loras Tyrell, Captain of the Hogwarts team, has asked me also to announce that recreational Quidditch sessions happen once a week and that all guests are welcome to attend. Good luck and goodnight!"

 

Margaery is on her feet before anyone else at the table. She pulls out the parchment that she'd rapidly scrawled on during Aemon's speech and strides up to the Goblet. Most of the students are still in the Great Hall, and all eyes are on her as she drops her name into the flames. 

 

_We're not keeping score yet - but if we were, the first point would be mine._

* * *

 

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of nervous energy. Margaery is uncharacteristically inattentive during her classes. Other students enter their names in the Goblet of Fire - some in secret, in the morning before anyone is awake, or during classes. Aegon Targaryen enters his name at breakfast, strutting forward with his posse behind him. _He seems to be the favourite from Sunspear_ , Margaery thinks. Joffrey Baratheon puts his name in, no one's surprise. Arya Stark makes a run at the age line and rebounds back so hard that she does it again just for fun. Ynys Yronwood puts her name in, as well as the Drinkwater Twins. Quentyn Martell puts his name in, although from his expression it looks like he'd rather not. 

 

As Margaery sits down at the Slytherin table for the Halloween Feast, she's pleased to note that people are still talking about her gambit from the night before. _I'll look pretty dumb if I don't get chosen, though._  She doesn't show her trepidation, making a show of chatting with her classmates and taking seconds of dessert. Only Renly sees through her, and squeezes her knee under the table. 

 

Professor Martell gets the attention of the room. "The Goblet of Fire has made its selections. Good luck and godspeed to the champions." There is a round of raucous applause. The Goblet spits out a charred piece of parchment. "The champion from the Sunspear School of Sorcery is... _Arianne Martell!"_ The students from Sunspear cheer loudly, especially the Sand sisters, as Arianne makes her way to the head table. Aegon looks livid, and Quentyn looks relieved. _Interesting._

Another scrap shoots out of the Goblet, and Jaqen H'ghar catches it delicately between two fingers. "The champion from The Free Cities Academy of Magic is... _Daenerys Targaryen!"_  Daenerys stands from the Slytherin table and strides determinedly to the Head Table. Margaery catches herself jogging her leg under the table and forces herself to be still. 

 

Professor Aemon catches the last paper and unfolds it. Margaery holds her breath. "The champion from Hogwarts will be... _Margaery Tyrell!_ " Margaery can hear Loras and Sansa chanting her name from the Gryffindor table. She reins in her grin and gets to her feet with a self-satisfied smile.

 

_Game on._

 


	8. Questions and Answers

Lyanna flits around Winterfell, feeling increasingly stir-crazy. She knew that Catelyn would be dealing with empty-nest syndrome with Rickon at school, but hadn't expected that she would be afflicted by it as well. Without Rickon around stirring up trouble, there's very little of note to observe.

 

Robb, Jon, and Theon are home, of course, trying to juggle the responsibilities of the Lord of the North between the three of them. With Sansa away at school, Catelyn has resumed her post as Lady of Winterfell, but between that and taking care of Ned, she doesn't have time to instruct the boys at all.

 

Lyanna tries to push her worry for Ned out of her mind. He's still very weak, and spends long stretches of time as the wolf to get back into physical shape, at least. Selfishly, Lyanna is frustrated - with Ned in his current state, Lyanna hasn't been able to get to Sunspear since the first day of term.

 

Lyanna floats down the hallway, invisible, and stops when she hears voices from Ned's solar.

 

" - doesn't make sense," Robb is saying. "If we send Karstark to deal with the yetis, there won't be anyone close by to Castle Black to lend support in case there's trouble beyond the Wall."

 

Lyanna feels a pang of something. Responsibility? No, couldn't be. But still. Typically, once the Stark heir graduates from Hogwarts, they start their education on ruling the North in earnest. But Ned is in no position to instruct and Sansa is away at school. It's probably a mixture of pride and of not wanting to bother his sister that stops Robb from asking Sansa how she coped.

 

_And keeping things together is a very different thing than learning how to do things properly from the ground up._

 

Lyanna sighs internally and makes herself visible. 

 

"Balancing tasks on this side of the Wall with defense of the Wall itself is the key challenge that every ruler of the North faces," Lyanna says. The boys start, then look at her with identical quizzical expressions. She ignores them and moves closer to the table where they have a map stretched out.

 

"Your father had to learn this in a hurry when Father and Brandon died, and I happened to be there to help him. So let's have a look at what you're dealing with."

 

There are tiny moving models of different monsters on the map, and Lyanna notes the yetis on one side of the Wall and the giants on the other. Jon appears at her shoulder, trying to see what she sees. 

 

"Have the giants proven to be aggressive?" Lyanna asks, frowning.

 

"No, Aunt Lyanna," Robb says hurriedly, happy at last to have someone to turn to. "But they're moving towards the Wall at some speed."

 

"They probably want to discuss something, then. One of you should head to Castle Black and speak to the Lord Commander, and be ready to pass on terms to your father."

 

"I'll go," Jon volunteers.

 

"Now, as for the yetis, the Night's Watch should be able to help us there, too. Eastwatch By the Sea is close enough to help deal with the threat."

 

"I'll speak to Asha," Theon says. "She could help transport soldiers and supplies."

 

They go through the rest of the map piece by piece, the boys hanging on her every word. Jon and Theon take off to complete their tasks, but Lyanna keeps Robb back.

 

"Meet me here tomorrow morning," Lyanna says. "We'll start your lessons." Robb grins, relieved. "And - I need you to write a letter for me."

 

* * *

 

Loras heads down to the pitch early, and is unsurprised to find that he's the first one there. He hops on his broom and begins doing warm-ups, flying at speed towards the hoops and stopping a hairsbreadth away. Loras is on the bigger side for a Seeker, and he knows he has to stay agile to be competitive.

 

"Loras!"

 

He stops mid-sprint to see Professor Tarth waving him down. There's someone there with her that Loras doesn't recognize from a distance, but as he gets closer the features resolve themselves into a face Loras never expected to see on the Hogwarts pitch.

 

_Lyn Corbray._

Loras dismounts and removes his gloves to shake Corbray's hand. 

 

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, sir."

 

Corbray throws his head back and laughs. "You were expecting to see me opposite you on the pitch next year?" Loras flushes. Corbray claps him on the shoulder. "Don't be embarrassed. There's nothing wrong with knowing your worth. That's directed to you _and_  your coach, by the way. Professor Tarth was a brick wall of a Keeper in our school days. She could still play professionally if she wanted."

 

Professor Tarth rolls her eyes, but Loras can tell that she's pleased. "Mister Corbray and I played against each other many times over the years. But I get more out of coaching than I do out of just playing."

 

Corbray looks unconvinced, but doesn't press. "Well, I'm not surprised to see you out here early. Professor Tarth tells me that you train more than most people sleep."

 

Loras beams proudly. "I know I need to work hard to meet my goals. But what are you doing here, Mister Corbray? Are you the one who's here to train us?"

 

"I am," Corbray says, lifting his right arm. "I can't play this season - that's what happens when you take two Bludgers to the shoulder. So I'll be running the inter-school training sessions."

 

More students start filing in, and Corbray and Tarth break off to consult with each other over a clipboard. Arya joins Loras and waves the Sand sisters over. She knows Nymeria, Tyene, and Elia, the Chasers for the Dornish team, from spending summers with the Martells. Loras remembers that it was the Sand sisters who had dealt with the chimaera once they'd incapacitated it, and resolves not to underestimate the three girls.

 

Corbray blows the whistle to get everyone's attention. "Hello, everyone. As you may know, I'm Lyn Corbray, and I represented the Vale in the World Cup this summer." There are some cheers, especially from the Hogwarts students. "Thank you. I'm delighted to have you here - the upside of being injured is that I get to play a part in the development of the Quidditch stars of tomorrow." There are some laughs, and Corbray smirks. "I also want to get the inside track on who's coming after my job in a few years." He grins at Loras, but for a moment Loras thinks he sees a flinty look in Corbray's eye that reminds him of how he looked at the World Cup after party. But just like at the party, the anger is gone before Loras can be sure.

 

They start the session by splitting up according to position and running drills so that Corbray can see what he's working with. He has the Seekers doing the same kind of rapid direction changes Loras saw him warm up with at the World Cup, but with the addition of floating pylons. Loras is assessing the other Seekers, and knows they're studying him, too. The first string Seekers are tiny Edric Dayne and the Valyrian-looking Lysano Maar. They're very good, but that just makes Loras all the more excited to play them. 

 

They finish with a drill where all six first-string Beaters work together to hit everyone else with a dozen softened Bludgers. It's such pure chaos that even the Beaters themselves are getting hit when more than one Bludger heads towards them at once. Loras, Edric, and Arya are the last three to be eliminated, and get hit by the combined efforts of the Beaters so quickly that it's impossible to tell who was the last one standing.

 

The players head over to the locker rooms, mostly keeping to their own teammates. Loras stays back to help with the equipment. Corbray sidles up to him as he wrestles the last Bludger into the box.

 

"All that practising is definitely paying off. It must not leave you with a lot of time for much else, though."

 

Loras shrugs. "I do well enough in my classes."

 

"I meant moreso for... extracurricular activities. Of course, it helps if you're dating someone on the team. Anything going on between you and your assistant captain?" Corbray nudges Loras conspiratorially as they lock up the equipment room.

 

"Arya?" Loras laughs out loud. "No, there's nothing between us. Even if I weren't gay, I don't think we're really each other's type."

 

Corbray stops in his tracks. "You're... gay?" He looks bewildered.

 

Loras feels that familiar discomfort crawling under his skin, and a flush creeping up his neck. "I am," he says, willing his voice to be steady. It's been a long time since he's had to come out to someone, but the sick feeling comes rushing back like it never left.

 

Corbray puts a hand on his arm. "Loras. Look at me. That's - I mean, I have no problem with it, personally. But a gay Quidditch star isn't really something that draws crowds."

 

"I guess I'll have to change that."

 

"Don't be stupid, Loras," Corbray snaps. His dark hair is coming out of his bindings and falling around his face. "You have the talent and the work ethic to go so far in this sport. Don't throw that away."

 

Loras shakes Corbray's arm off. "So, what? I should just start playing for the other team? Change my stripes? That's not how it works, you know."

 

"I know that. What I'm saying is - be discreet. Your personal life doesn't need to get in the way of your career."

 

"This is who I am," Loras says, stopping at the top of the stairs to the Entrance Hall. "I won't keep myself hidden. And I'll let my playing speak for itself."

 

"You're being naive!" Corbray calls after him. But Loras is already through the doors and pounding down the stairs to the dungeons. He hammers on the stone wall that blocks the entrance to the Slytherin common room until an annoyed-looking Robin Arryn appears. 

 

"What in the Seven Hells - oh, it's you. What's up, Loras?"

 

"Family emergency," Loras pants. "Can you send my sister out?"

 

Robin nods and disappears into the common room. Moments later, a frazzled-looking Margaery comes out. 

 

"Loras! What is it? What's the emergency?"

 

Loras leads her away from the door and down the hall. "I don't actually need you," he says. "I need Renly." He tells her about Corbray and her face goes tight with anger. Loras's own anger is being replaced by a desperate sadness. Sad that Corbray was so judgmental about his decision to be out; and sad that in this moment, he can't just walk up to the Slytherin common room and demand to speak to his boyfriend.

 

_Because no one's supposed to know he's my boyfriend. Even if it's perfectly obvious to the whole school._

Margaery wraps her arms around him. Not for the first time, Loras thanks the gods that he and his sister are alike in this way, if only so that he can have one person in his life who really, truly understands.

 

"Where shall I tell him to meet you?"

 

Loras tells her to get Renly to come to the courtyard Sansa and Margaery often study in. He's careful to never to meet too often in one place. When Renly arrives, he kisses Loras soundly and pulls his head into his lap.

 

"Margaery told me," Renly says, stroking Loras's hair. "I'm so sorry, Loras."

 

"I don't want to hide who I am to do what I love. I _won't."_

Renly sighs. "I hate it too, Loras."

 

Loras sits up. "It's worth it to you, though. When you're Master of Laws, you'll look back on the years of hiding and know they were worth it."

 

Renly freezes, and Loras knows he is crossing a line that can't be uncrossed, but he can't seem to stop.

 

"You don't care if you have to play by the rules to get where you want to be. You'll keep one foot in the closet your whole life if you have to. Keep you - _and us_  - under wraps because you're afraid of what everyone else will think." He's taking out his own anger and frustration on Renly. He knows that. And even as he says them, he knows the things he's saying aren't entirely true. But it's true _enough_  that it's been eating away at him.

 

Renly stands abruptly. "You think I _like_  hiding who I am? I'm fucking miserable, Loras. But we don't all live in the fairy tale wonderland you do. My brothers _alone_  aren't worth the risk of coming out."

 

"Then come live with me!" Loras cries, leaping up to face his boyfriend. "You'll be of age this year, and out of Hogwarts. You can life your life the way you want."

 

"It's not that simple, Loras. And it's not just Robert and Stannis. It's everyone. The world isn't different just because you want it to be." Renly shakes his head and starts to leave, pausing in the doorway. He looks back. "Corbray was right. You _are_ naive."

 

* * *

 

Margaery puts the finishing touches on her hair, and straightens her tie. Sansa groans a bit from her bed and a few moment later appears from behind the green curtains. 

 

"You look nice," she says sleepily. 

 

"We don't all have a free period first thing, darling," Margaery says, amused. Sansa yawns and stretches. Margaery's pretty sure that her roommates know that Sansa sometimes spends the night - either that, or they think that Margaery has suddenly begun to snore adorably. But none of them are snitches, which she's grateful for. _I've certain abused by Prefect privileges to bail out Alysane Waters enough times._

Sansa wraps her arms around Margaery from behind. "You have interviews today, don't you?"

 

"Mmm. The press will be here all day doing profiles on the champions. And we have the wand weighing ceremony, too."

 

"Are you nervous? About the press coverage?"

 

"A little bit," Margaery admits, smiling at Sansa in the mirror. "But I'm sure I'll be alright."

 

"I have every confidence that you'll charm the pants off of them."

 

Margaery turns to kiss Sansa, and pulls back before they can get carried away. Sansa grins sleepily at her stretches, yawning. Margaery is distracted momentarily by her shirt riding up to expose her hips and stomach, then shakes her head and starts backing out of the room. "I'll see you tonight?"

 

"Good luck. I can't wait for the whole world to know how amazing you are." Sansa blows her a kiss and disappears into the washroom. 

 

Margaery jogs down the stairs to the common room. Renly is there, looking as miserable as he has all week, but he avoids her eyes. She sighs. Renly might be Loras's boyfriend, but he's Margaery's _best_ friend, and she hates it when the two of them fight. 

 

_This disagreement has been coming for a long time, though._ She hates that they live in a world where Renly feels unsafe coming out. And she wishes that she could just be on Loras's side and tell Renly to get out of the closet already. _But Renly's right. It might be easy for Loras, with a family from the South, but it's not easy for everyone._

_It fucking should be_.

 

Margaery smooths the anger from her face as she strides down the hall. She needs to have her game face on today. A few first years wave shyly at her, and she grins when she sees that they're wearing the "Team Margaery" badges that Bran and Jojen Reed had devised. 

 

The Great Hall is almost empty when she arrives, most students being on their way to classes. Joffrey shoves her with his shoulder as he passes her in the doorway, but when he looks back to smirk, he walks right into the foot that Daenerys Targaryen sticks in his path and tumbles face first into the flagstones. Daenerys catches up to Margaery and they exchange a grin.

 

"Thanks."

 

"Oh, no problem at all," Dany says, flipping her silver hair over her shoulder. "Sansa and I talked a lot about boy problems last summer. I felt like I owed him one."

 

They two of them sit down at the Slytherin table to eat, and Margaery finds that it's less awkward than it probably should be. "How do you like Hogwarts so far?"

 

"It's cool! The school in Braavos isn't very old; it was constructed just a couple hundred years ago when the Free Cities decided to combine their academies. So it's fascinating to explore an ancient castle like Hogwarts. And of course, being back with Missandei is wonderful. She's my best friend."

 

"Sansa told me that you have three dragons?"

 

Dany grins. "I do. Sometimes I prefer them to people, to be honest. Oh! Arianne! Over here!"

 

Arianne Martell strolls into the room, looking sleepy but self-assured. She joins them and begins to spread marmalade on toast.

 

"Good morning, ladies. I'll be honest - as lovely as you both are, I'm a little bit disappointed that I won't get the opportunity to thoroughly humble any _boys_."

 

Margaery smirks. "I think we've humbled them already by having an all female roster of champions."

"Agreed," says Dany. "Just imagine. They'll all have to sit there and watch us kill it, with the knowledge that three women are on the world stage in the biggest sporting event in three centuries because _no men could make the cut_."

 

They all toast to that, and walk together to the small classroom where the weighing of the wands is taking place. 

 

The three headmasters are there, as well as Littlefinger and Nestoris. A wandmaker who introduces himself as Tobho Mott is there to assess their wands and make sure there are no defects that will affect their ability to compete. 

 

Margaery and Arianne wait while Mott examines Dany's wand. "Hmm, yes - beech and dragon heartstring. I can't think of a Targaryen who hasn't had a dragon heartstring wand core. The beech is unusual, though. Unusual for a Targaryen, that is - perhaps not unusual for you, since your mother had the very same."

 

Dany blinks. "My mother?"

 

Mott nods, adjusting his loupe and not taking his eyes off of the wand. "She was an old soul, your mother. Very smart, very suited to her wand." Margaery watches Dany's face carefully. The other girl looks positively starving for more information about her mother, but Mott just hands her back her wand and pronounces it fit for use.

 

_She probably hears a lot about her father, and not much about her mother. The mad war criminal parent probably overshadows the other one._

Dany joins Margaery quietly while Mott examines Arianne's wand. It's vine and unicorn hair, and Mott praises its swishiness. 

 

Margaery presents her wand to Mott. "Mmm, elm and phoenix feather. A traditional combination, and a powerful one." Margaery feels a smile tugging at her lips. _Grandmother has the same._

Littlefinger herds them behind a table, and a dozen or so reporters and photographers file into the room. Dany still looks a bit off-kilter, so Margaery gives her an encouraging smile. 

 

"Question for Arianne Martell - you've been following in the footsteps of your uncle as a duelist. How do you think that will serve you in the tasks ahead?"

 

"Obviously my reflexes will be an asset, but I think my biggest advantage is the diversity of my spell knowledge. We don't know anything about the first task - so it'll be important to be prepared for anything."

 

"Question for Margaery Tyrell! What do you think is your biggest strength going into the competition?"

 

"It's definitely my ability to adapt. When I find that I'm out of my depth, I pull answers out that often wouldn't occur to other people." _Like when I'm fighting a magic-resistant chimaera when I'm only supposed to be having detention. But I can't tell you all about that._

"Ms. Targaryen - how does it feel to be back in Westeros, and how do you think your education abroad will serve you?"

 

"It's wonderful to be back, of course. I've received a stellar education in the Free Cities, of course, but I'm excited to be back. Being in Essos has given me a different perspective, I think, about magic and about problem solving. It's nice to be home - but I'm here to compete."

 

It goes on like that for a little while, reporters gathering information on the strengths and weaknesses each competitor brings to the table. The three girls settle into a comfortable rhythm, until a reporter from the _Daily Prophet_ stands up. 

 

"My question is for Ms. Targaryen. How do you feel about your... mental resilience going into this competition?"

 

Dany looks guarded. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

 

The reporter gives her a patronizing look. "Your family isn't exactly known for your ability to stay _stable_  under pressure. One might even say there's a legacy of _madness -"_

Headmaster H'ghar cuts in angrily. "A man's student will _not_ be subjected to this line of questioning!"

 

Margaery feels Dany take a deep breath beside her. "No. No, it's alright. I mean, it's not _alright_  - you should be ashamed of yourself for that question. But I will answer it regardless. One of the most empowering things we can do, as the younger generation, is to transcend the _legacy_  of our parents, and make an effort to change the world we've inherited. Even it means exercising patience with people who will soon be obsolete." She looks pointedly at the _Prophet_  reporter. "Perhaps the _Daily Prophet_  should work on creating a legacy of half-decent journalism."

 

Margaery's jaw drops. She quickly tries to school her expression. _That was... utterly savage._

_And awesome._

The press conference wraps up pretty quickly after that. Dany takes off before Margaery can talk to her, and as Margaery watches her striding down the hall, she understands how Dany is someone who can tame three dragons.

 

* * *

 

There's a gale whipping through the trees and and autumn chill in the air. It's nothing like the cold in the North, but any kind of wind is unpleasant when you're naked. Sansa stands in the Thestral paddock, shivering, and stows her clothes and wand in a dark corner of the stables before transforming.

 

Sansa had taken a circuitous route out of the castle that was paranoid even for her. Her normal caution had tipped over to full-blown obsessiveness these past few weeks. She can't shake the feeling that she's being watched. Followed. And with so many new people in the castle, she knows better than to ignore her instincts.

 

Sansa creeps stealthily around the castle to the forest, and only then does she let herself run freely. She leaps over a fallen tree, enjoying the feeling of her muscles coiling and releasing. The earth under her paws is rich with the smell of decay, and she sinks into the loamy soil as she runs.

 

She's forbidden Rickon and Lyanna from going out without the pack and she knows that Arya rarely goes out without them. And Bran, well;, who knows which animal's head he's in at any given time? But Sansa has always felt the intense need for time alone, even as the wolf. Just her and the moon.

 

She finds herself at the same rock outcropping where she and Arya had been cornered by the chimaera. So much has happened since then, but it feels like yesterday. She retraces their steps, thinking that maybe if she relives the experience, and remembers that it ended in victory, she'll stop having nightmares about Margaery bleeding out on the forest floor.

 

The clearing where they fought is downwind of her, so she's surprised to find Bran there when she arrives. He's sitting there, chair and all, which he rarely does. He prefers to keep his body in the castle.

 

Sansa waits for a few minutes, and then Bran's eyes roll forward again and he sees her, blinking slowly. She transforms, and Bran conjures a cloak for her. She makes herself comfortable on the ground in front of him.

 

"It's not like you to come to the forest in person," Sansa ventures.

 

"Because it's a pain in the ass," Bran says. Even though he's complaining, his voice still has the faraway quality it gets when he's been Seeing. "Summer had to clear the way for me, and I had to Levitate my chair four times. Don't worry," he says, anticipating Sansa's concern. "I disillusioned myself on the way here, and the crows kept watch as well." 

 

Sansa runs her hands through the dirt, remembering when it was soaked in blood. Bran nods, catching what she isn't saying. 

 

"There's no weirwood. But a lot of blood was spilt here without death. That has power."

 

The wind picks up, making the light of the moon flicker on Bran's face. He looks otherworldly, all red hair and pallid skin. 

 

"Something is wrong," he says. "A time of great chaos is coming, but I can't tell if it's good or bad, or what it's going to affect. I'm trying to See, but there are too many moving parts."

 

"The changes happening at the Ministry are pretty huge," Sansa says slowly. "And the Triwizard Tournament hasn't happened in hundreds of years. Could that be it?"

 

"Maybe," Bran says doubtfully. "It's probably part of it. But everything feels... unclean, somehow. This sense of wrongness. I'm sure that someone used dark magic a few weeks ago - but there are so many new people and objects that have arrived, not to mention the Goblet of Fire, that I'm having a hard time pinpointing anything. All I'm getting is a bunch of vague foreboding, which is completely useless."

 

Sansa gets up and gives him her hand. "I feel it, too. And I have... this awful sense of being watched. If there's a chance of you seeing something, we need to try."

 

Bran hesitates, then nods, taking her hand and flipping it to expose her palm. He removes his knife from his belt and slices a clean line across his palm, then Sansa's, and lets their blood mingle and drip onto the ground.

 

And this is why she can't hate Professor Lannister's class, gods dammit. Because this thing they're doing now? It's blood magic, and it's _very_ illegal. But it's a staple in the North - behind closed doors.

 

Bran's eyes roll back, and Sansa feels uncomfortably like her energy is being siphoned off, which is more or less what's happening.

 

The soil starts to move around their feet, like they're standing in a shallow tide pool. Their blood sinks deep when it falls onto the ground. The stench of decay becomes even stronger, until Sansa feels like she's choking on it. Bran begins to shake from his fingertips to his shoulder, and his eyes are moving rapidly in their sockets. Then his grip on Sansa's hand tightens till it's like a vice.

 

His eyes snap open, and the world mutes itself again.

 

"I saw a river," Bran says slowly. "You were there. You and a boy - a teenager, like you. He tried to grab your hand... you pushed him in and ran off." Sansa frowns. _Me and a boy?_  "I saw this, too. The forest. There was blood, people running... But then..." Bran stops. He looks uncharacteristically terrified. "I was the crow. I was flying over the castle, and past Hogsmeade, and into the Crownlands. And everything, the whole world..." He gulps. "It was covered in ice."

 

Sansa draws a sharp breath. She knows that not everything Bran Sees comes true, that it's only a possibility... But it must be a pretty strong possibility for him to see it while doing blood magic. She and her brother share a solemn look.

 

"I'll write a letter to Mum and Dad. Margaery is working tomorrow, so she can Floo over and hand deliver it." Bran nods dumbly and they make their way out of the Forest.

 

When she's seen Bran off safely, Sansa returns to the stables and retrieves her clothes. She pauses to stroke the smooth head of a Thestral, suddenly missing home. 

 

She pushes open the old servants' door to the castle and creeps down the corridor to an atrium with four moving staircases.

 

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye.

 

Her wand is out in a flash, but when she turns there's no one there. She sprints up one of the staircases and through a secret passage behind a gargoyle, then slides down a stone chute to the first floor. She dives behind a tapestry and pauses for a moment before running down the hallway and tickling the pear in a painting of a bowl of fruit to get to the kitchens. She runs past bewildered house elves and shuts herself in the second pantry from the left, then rearranges the wheels of cheese to make on of the shelves swing open to reveal a staircase. She takes the stairs two at a time and whispers " _Centaur_ ," to move a section of wall. There's a suit of armour in the way, so she taps it on the shoulder and it moves out of the way so she's left in the corridor outside the library. Satisfied that she's lost her pursuer, she walks around the corner.

 

And directly into a sweaty, panting Professor Lannister.

 

For a moment he looks as guilty as she does. Then his face clears and he wipes his brow. "Ms. Stark. What are you doing wandering the halls late at night?"

 

_Why the hells are_ you _out? And breathing hard? Like maybe you were just chasing someone?_

"I, um, was... sorry, Professor. You caught me."

 

Lannister raises an eyebrow. "That still doesn't answer my question."

 

Sansa tries to look awkward and embarrassed. It isn't difficult. "Well... my girlfriend is in Slytherin, so..."

 

Lannister, thankfully, smirks. "Ah, yes. Meeting halfway between the Gryffindor and Slytherin common rooms. Been there." Sansa recalls that Cersei had been in Slytherin. _Gross._  Lannister seems to remember as well, because his smirk shifts to a grimace.

 

"Well, I can't really blame you. But if anyone asks, I was extremely strict and gave you years of detention." Sansa smiles queasily

 

"Thanks, Professor." She starts to walk away, her heart pounding.

 

"Wait!"

 

Sansa turns slowly, dread creeping into her chest. Lannister points at her hand.

 

"Did you hurt yourself?"

 

Sansa looks down. Her cut has already closed, thanks to her fast healing, but her hand is still smeared with blood.

 

"I, um. There's a tower we like to go to," she says, half-truthfully. "It requires some climbing to get there."

 

Lannister nods slowly, but his eyes are shrewd. "Goodnight, Ms. Stark."

 

"Goodnight, Professor."

 

Sansa flees to Gryffindor Tower and collapses into bed. _Was Professor Lannister following me? Why? And if not him, who?_

It takes a long time for Sansa to fall asleep. When she finally does, she dreams of a world encased in ice.

 

* * *

 

Shireen had intended to keep her head down at Hogwarts.

 

She'd had visions of studying in the library, blending into the crowd at Quidditch games, and - hopefully - having a few friends to play chess with in the common room. 

 

In no universe had she envisioned herself creeping through the Thestral paddock on her belly, headed past the stand of trees that served as a windbreak, to spy on the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. 

 

It had started in the dungeons.

 

They'd been late leaving from Potions. Rickon had exploded his cauldron and Lyanna and Shireen had stayed behind to help him clean up (the two girls had wisely decided to pair up with each other for the term instead of him). They'd been running late to Charms, so they'd ducked behind a tapestry that Rickon _claimed_  hid a secret passage they could use as a shortcut. 

 

While Rickon had been trying different passwords - _trust Rickon to forget -_ they'd heard voices coming down the hall.  

 

"A man is glad to be able to tell his champion what to expect for the First Task."

 

"Well, the Triwizard Tournament has a long and respected tradition of cheating, so I don't think tipping off our students violates any real moral code."

 

"Does Aemon know?"

 

"Not as far as I know. I plan on waiting to tell Arianne until the last minute - I don't want any misplaced notions of fairness to lead her to tell the Tyrell girl what's happening. She has the home court advantage, after all."

 

"A man is surprised that the Thestrals haven't caused a problem."

 

"It's far enough away, I think... beyond the treeline"

 

The voices had faded into the distance, and Rickon, Lyanna, and Shireen had exchanged a panicked look. 

 

So. Here they are. Stealthily creeping up on the place where the secret to the First Task is being held.

 

_It didn't even occur to me to question it. I just went along with things like it was inevitable that we would sneak over to the place H'ghar and Martell were talking about._

Part of it, Shireen knows, is Rickon and Lyanna's chaotic influence. She's violated curfew more times than she's obeyed it since starting at Hogwarts. But exploring secret passages and playing harmless pranks is very different than trying to gain top-secret information about a highly dangerous magical competition.

 

In the end, Shireen realizes, the decision was so easy because of who they were spying _for._  Margaery is one of the most genuinely kind people Shireen has ever met. She's used to people being nice to her so that they can pat themselves on the back for it, or out of pity. But Margaery has consistently treated her with dignity. _Not like a charity case._ She's one of the people that have come into Shireen's life these past few months that make her feel like she's really worth something, like she's really being _seen_. Shireen has the choice in front of her, clear as day: just exist, or do something that has an impact.

 

Hence the army crawling into illegal territory.

 

They're at the treeline, now. The ground slopes down sharply on the other side. Shireen can hear voices as they approach. They crest the rise and look down. 

 

There are a dozen handlers with long sticks and cables. A shimmering in the air indicates strong wards. And no wonder, because the handlers are wrangling a massive, serpentine dragon.

 

Lyanna gasps beside her, and Rickon covers her mouth with his hand. She shrugs it off in annoyance. Shireen is speechless.

 

The dragon has bright blue scales that reflect the dying sunlight. A long tail is coiled underneath it. Its body is long, and it writhes in the air like it's cutting through water. But the most terrifying thing is that it has six heads.

 

As they watch, two of the heads strike forward like snakes from either side of one of the handlers, while the other four bath him in blue-green flames. Eleven shields materialize around the unfortunate wizard with remarkable speed, saving him from an instant, horrible death. 

 

The three Gryffindors share a terrified look and begin to retreat by unspoken agreement. 

 

They find Margaery and Sansa in the library, huddled over a pile of books that look like they have to be from the Restricted Section. The two older girls look up as they approach, and Shireen marvels that they manage to look so approachable despite clearly being extremely harried. Their expressions become concerned as they take in the three first years, who are still white with terror despite having sprinted all the way there. Rickon, as usual, is the one who speaks first.

 

"I have good news and bad news."

 

* * *

 

Elia sighs and throws the newspaper across the table. _Poor Dany._ The _Daily Prophet_ had dragged her through the mud, and some of the other papers had followed suit. _Aggressive. Rude. Destined to end up like her father._ The headline in the _Prophet_ had been _Waking the Dragon! Targaryen's Temper Flares at Routine Press Conference_.

 

_Women like Dany will always have an uphill struggle for respect_ , Elia reminds herself. It doesn't make it any easier. She dashes off a note reminding Dany that she's here to talk any time and gets up to make some mint tea. In Dorne, even autumn is sweltering. 

 

She's just boiling the water when an owl taps on the window. It's not one she recognizes, and it's clearly not made for these temperatures. She lets it in and pours some water into a bowl before removing the letter from its leg. 

 

_Dear Elia,_

_I realize that sixteen years is a long time to wait for a friend to finally start sending you mail. I had an enlightening conversation with someone recently, however, who pointed out that maybe I shouldn't spend all my time moping around a castle..._

Elia smiles, full and genuine. She pours her tea and sits down to read.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, folks! Next chapter: the First Task!


	9. Forged in Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the delayed update - hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for it a bit! Content warning for graphic descriptions of burns in this chapter in general (dragons, you know how it is) and for abuse in Dany's scene.

Sansa wakes up slowly, Margaery's warm skin and heavy breathing almost dragging her back into slumber. She looks at her watch. It's still early. They have time.

 

She trails the back of her hand down Margaery's cheek and along her jaw, enjoying the other girl's rare stillness, and the warm feeling that spreads from her chest to her fingertips when she looks at her.

 

_How did this happen?_ Sansa thinks. _How did I go from not knowing Margaery to being part of something so beautiful?_

 

She thinks of that Quidditch match last spring, of seeing Margaery right in front of her in her moment of triumph. At the time, it was just a bonus to end up right in front of a pretty girl. Sansa hadn't known, then, how much Margaery would come to mean to her. How understanding, how kind - and how challenging and how passionate she would be. 

 

Margaery had effortlessly made Sansa comfortable with feeling things she hadn't trusted herself to feel since Joffrey. And more - Margaery had gotten under her skin and into her heart like no one ever had. She makes Sansa feel like - like -

 

Margaery's eyes flutter open, and Sansa gasps because as soon as their eyes meet it hits her.

 

_I'm in love._

 

"What is it?" Margaery asks, her voice rough from sleep. She pushes her hair out of her face, then tenses and moves to sit up. "Did we oversleep? Gods, I - "

 

"No. Hey, it's okay," Sansa says, pushing Margaery down gently. "We have lots of time." She looks down at Margaery in wonder. The overwhelming feeling suffusing her grows, as though the mere act of giving it a name has made it stronger. Sansa lets it fill her, enjoying the sweet suffering of having a secret on her lips.

 

Margaery stares up at her, dark eyes searching. Sansa feels herself smiling and lays next to Margaery so their faces are inches apart. Just looking at her like this, and being seen by her in turn, makes Sansa feel dizzy and grounded at the same time.

 

"Sans? Really, what is it?" Margaery says finally, running her thumb along Sansa's jaw. She looks uncharacteristically vulnerable under the intensity of Sansa's gaze, but there's something else there, too - a sort of hot anticipation that makes Sansa shiver.

 

But.

 

_I can't tell her now. The First Task is today. What if it throws her off? Better to save it. There'll be plenty of time for declarations of love later._

 

"Nothing," Sansa says. "How do you feel?"

 

"Nervous," Margaery admits. 

 

Sansa runs a hand through Margaery's hair. "I think that's natural. But you'll be amazing. I know you will."

 

Margaery sighs and leans into Sansa's touch. Sansa has the urge to hold her close, to make her feel safe and protected.

 

"Oh!" Sansa rolls out of bed, ignoring Margaery's protests. "I have something for you."

 

Margaery stretches and slides out of bed as Sansa reaches into her bag. Sansa pulls out a cloak and shakes it out, smiling at the other girl's gasp.

 

"Sansa, it's beautiful," Margaery says, running her hand along the fine wool. The cloak is gray with runes stitched along the hem and collar in white thread. Sansa has been working on it for a month.

 

"They're protective runes," Sansa explains. "Don't worry. I checked the rules. It's perfectly legal. It's just - we said we weren't going to do this anymore, right? One person going into danger alone? So here - I'm with you." She throws the cloak around Margaery's shoulders and does up the clasp at her neck, very aware of her girlfriend's dark eyes on her.

 

"Why, Lady Stark," Margaery murmurs, looking at Sansa through her lashes. "All we need is a cloak for you and this could be a wedding."

 

Sansa realizes belatedly that the cloak she's just given Margaery is in Stark colours. She flushes and opens her mouth to say something, but Margaery snakes her arms around Sansa's neck and stands on tiptoe to kiss her.

 

Sansa sighs into Margaery's mouth and brings her hands up to Margaery's back. She pulls Margaery flush against her and meets the other girl's tongue with her own. She feels Margaery's hands twist in her hair and moans. The fabric of the cloak is soft beneath her fingers and she feels a thrill run through her at Margaery wearing _her_ cloak, _her_ colours. 

 

Margaery pulls back slowly, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. Sansa cups her cheek and lets herself fall into Margaery's eyes for a moment.

 

_I love you,_ she thinks, and wonders if Margaery can see it written all over her face.

 

* * *

 

Myrcella tries not to gape at the competition area that has sprung up on the Hogwarts grounds overnight. There's a small mountain between the castle and the lake, rising steeply to the clouds. It's so thick with trees and flowers that the path quickly disappears to the outside eye. And at the top, just barely visible against the grey November sky, a dragon flies in lazy circles around the peak. She brings her camera up from where it dangles around her neck and snaps a photo.

 

She makes her way to the stands, which look over the last stretch of flat ground before the incline. There's a small village of tents at the far end, including a medical tent and the holding area for the champions. Seats are already starting to fill up with students and members of the public who have come to watch.

 

"Pretty amazing isn't it? Hopefully there are no casualties. That would be a rough way to start." 

 

Myrcella glances at her uncle, not turning to face him fully. She's been trying to ice him out, but he's not making it easy. He's been at half her Quidditch practices to watch, and she's noticed him helping Tommen with his homework more than once. He's even been trying to get through to Joffrey - after her brother's outburst at try-outs, Myrcella thinks that Uncle Jaime noticed just what a monster he's become under Robert's watch. 

 

But still. Maybe it's too little, too late.

 

Myrcella rolls her eyes and turns away from Jaime, suppressing the flicker of guilt she feels at his downtrodden expression. It's then that she notices that much of the gathering crowd has gone silent. She turns to the temporary car park where carriages are pulling up from Hogsmeade.

 

Emerging from the nearest carriage is her mother.

 

Making her first public appearance since Robert Baratheon's imprisonment... with style.

 

Cersei is wearing a scarlet dress with a slit three quarters of the way up her leg and a cloth of gold cloak that almost hurts to look at. Her hair is in an elaborate updo, and she's wearing a heavily jeweled snake pendant that catches the meager sunlight. She walks up the path to the stands with her head held high, looking nothing like a woman whose husband has been sentenced to life in Azkaban.

 

_She's campaigning for Minister,_  Myrcella realizes. _This is her first step._

 

She notices that Uncle Jaime has frozen beside her and looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

 

"I think Professor Tarth said she needed help reinforcing the wards by the holding area," Myrcella says pointedly. _I don't feel bad for him,_ she thinks as he hurries off. _I just want to avoid a scene._

 

Myrcella waves to Trystane, who looks relieved not to have to greet her mother, and collects Tommen from his group of friends. Joffrey waves at their mother dismissively from further up the stands and Myrcella feels a flash of irritation. _But why?_ She thinks. _Why does it feel so important to toe the line and present a cohesive family unit? I've been doing that my whole godsdamned life._

 

_Because I don't know what I'm going to do yet,_  Myrcella thinks. She kisses her mother on the cheek and thinks that this might be the healthiest she's looked in years. _And because despite it all, it's always been us against father - together. That still means something._

 

"Myrcella, darling, it's so wonderful to see you," her mother says. She bends to embrace Tommen, and Myrcella thinks that her joy at being reunited with her youngest is sincere, despite the mass of flashing cameras around them. 

 

"Your brother didn't see fit to join us, then?" Cersei asks through a bright smile as they head towards the stands.

 

"I'm pretty sure trying to wrangle him would have resulted in an even bigger scene," Myrcella says through a smile of her own, sensing her mother's unspoken reproach at Myrcella's failure to produce her eldest child.

 

Cersei sighs. "How out of control has he been this term?" She waves at an Essosi dignitary.

 

"It's been fairly quiet since his meltdown at tryouts," Myrcella says. But it's always sort of the calm before the storm with Joff.

 

"Well, that's not his fault," Cersei sniffs. "That... _woman_ clearly doesn't have an eye for talent." But she lacks some of her usual fire in her defense of Joffrey. Myrcella knows that her mother is hurt by Joff's aloofness - he's always been her favourite, her Slytherin successor. But Joffrey had learned from their father not to care about the regard of women, so he's been distancing himself more and more from their mother.

 

Tommen grabs Cersei's attention with a story from his Charms class, and she seems to forget about Joffrey's absence for a while. By the time they part ways at the VIP area, Cersei is almost smiling sincerely, although that could be for the Ministry higher-ups that she's approaching. Myrcella watches her mother go thoughtfully.

 

_What's her game today, then?_

 

* * *

 

Dany stands still while a Ministry official keys her into the wards around the competition area. It's taken a good twenty minutes, and Dany has to shove down her impatience.

 

"It's an anti-tampering measure," he explains. "The only people who can access the area are the champions and the dragon handlers."

 

Dany nods, only half paying attention. She's running her strategy over and over again in her mind.

 

"Dany!"

 

She turns, dread creeping in. The voice belongs to her brother. _Viserys._ He's striding towards her in striking robes of black and red. His hair is pulled back neatly, and although his cheeks are hollow as always, his eyes are bright and clear. _He's certainly cleaned up for his first Westerosi appearance in a decade,_  Dany thinks.

 

The official pronounces her done and Viserys comes forward to embrace her. Dany returns it uncomfortably and takes a deep breath to keep her composure.

 

_Huh._

 

_He's sober,_  Dany realizes as she pullls away. She hates the hopeful feeling that sneaks into her chest.

 

"I didn't know you were coming," she says.

 

Viserys smiles charmingly for the benefit of the ministry personnel around them. "As though I'd miss it."

 

Dany returns his smile nervously.

 

"It's only fitting that the first Triwizard Tournament in centuries will feature a Targaryen. And," he says, leaning closer. "I have a lot of money riding on this. So I'm counting on you."

 

_There it is,_  Dany thinks, inwardly rolling her eyes. Betting on the Tournament is illegal, since students are competing, but trust Viserys to find some backroom gambling den.

 

Viserys puts his arm around her, and Dany doesn't realize that he's leading her around the tent until it's too late. Any bystanders are far away.

 

In an instant, his face is vicious.

 

"Did you think I wouldn't hear about your little press shenanigans?"

 

Dany tries to move away, but his hand shoots out to grab her arm, his grip vice-like.

 

"The last thing I need is you ruining my chances at being Minister because you can't keep your self-righteous little mouth shut." He jerks her even closer. "So try to stop embarrassing me - or I might decide that the best way to fund my campaign is to sell your dragons."

 

He whirls around, his robes swishing as he turns. Dany closes her eyes and wonders just how far she has to flee to get away from him.

 

* * *

 

Margaery sits in the holding area with Dany and Arianne, waiting for their official instructions. Littlefinger ducks into the tent just as Margaery starts to feel like she won't be able to hide her nerves very much longer.

 

"Good morning, champions!" He says with that oily smile of his. "And what an... _attractive_ group of champions it is." _Ugh._  "You've seen the new topography, and I'm sure you've also noticed the dragon flying around it. At the top of the garden, there is a tree with golden apples on it. Your task is to get by the dragon and retrieve one of the apples. You'll be judged on how quickly you can accomplish this task, as well as how stealthily you can accomplish it. Points will be deducted both for bodily injuries sustained by yourselves _and_ to the dragon. Spell effects on the dragon are allowed." Baelish produces a small bag. "You'll draw numbers to determine the order you'll go in. The person who goes first has the advantage of total surprise, but the disadvantage of the dragon being at full capacity."

 

The girls all draw numbers. Dany is first, Margaery last. "Good luck," Margaery and Arianne say. Dany takes a deep breath and follows Littlefinger out of the tent to the roar of the spectators. 

 

Margaery and Arianne wait in silence. Arianne is twisting a lock of her thick dark hair around her finger, the only sign of nerves. Margaery counts the number of loose threads on the canvas interior of the tent to pass the time and wishes that Sansa were here, or Loras or Arya or Renly or even Elinor. 

 

The crowd breaks into cheers again, so Dany must be back. Margaery gives Arianne an encouraging smile as Baelish comes to collect her. Then she's alone in the tent with her thoughts. 

 

She rubs her cloak between thumb and forefinger, admiring the Northern runes that Sansa had hand-stitched. She feels a rush of affection for her girlfriend. "Women used to make them for their husbands when they had to go to war or venture beyond the Wall," Sansa had said shyly, not making eye contact. It stirs something deep in Margaery to think of Sansa labouring every night over the cloak, calling upon an old tradition of her people to keep Margaery safe.

 

Her thoughts are interrupted by Littlefinger returning. "Last but certainly not least, right Ms. Tyrell?"

 

Margaery gives him her blandest professional smile. She takes a deep breath and follows him out of the tent. 

 

The spectators cheer raucously and Margaery gives them all a grin and a jaunty wave. She spots Sansa standing with Arya and Jeyne and gives her a special smile. Then it's go time. She blocks the audience out and makes her way past the stands and to the base of the mountain.

 

It's more of a narrow spire than a mountain, Margaery thinks as she climbs through the foliage and up the sharp switchback trail. But it's beautiful, and she sees why Littlefinger called it a garden. Below the canopy of trees there's a profusion of flowers and ferns. Margaery recognizes daisies and peonies and four different varieties of roses in the first ten meters alone. 

 

The path diminishes to almost nothing, and Margaery is sure that making their way through the brush is supposed to be an added challenge, especially since they're supposed to be stealthy. But Margaery has been picking her way through gardens and forests and swamps her entire life, and stepping delicately over roots and briar patches is second nature. 

 

Even so, she's breathing a bit hard from the climb as she approaches the summit. She takes a moment to get her bearings and to remember the plan that she'd worked out with Sansa and Arya. 

 

Margaery lays on her stomach and peers through a juniper brush. There it is, right in front of her - a blue six-headed dragon entwined with the apple tree, moving sinuously among the branches. _Ugh. The way it_ moves _,_ Margaery thinks. She understands why Rickon and his friends had been so terrified after they saw it. 

 

She watches for a little while longer. Four of the heads are blinking and grumbling. _Arianne must have done something to their eyes_. Margaery creeps around the clearing, staying in the foliage, until she's almost close enough to touch the tail. Her heart pounds in her chest. 

 

_Now or never_.

 

" _Serpensortia_ ," Margaery whispers. Dozens of grass snakes begin to come out of her wand, spreading out among the plants. _Not yet..._  

 

Lastly, she produces a huge python, which immediately makes for the open area in front of the dragon. The six heads roar in warning, but the python still makes to strike at them, moving rapidly side to side. 

 

_Alright, now_ , Margaery thinks. She's using a low-level animal control spell on the snakes, which feels gross, but she reminds herself that they're not real. They begin to climb the tree and make their way onto the dragon's body, so small that they're barely noticeable, especially with the distraction of the python.

 

_They're about to get a lot more noticeable_.

 

Margaery waits until several of the snakes have made it onto the dragon's necks, and then rises to a kneeling position and points her wand at the dragon. 

 

The snakes begin to transfigure into chains, each small serpent coiling and becoming a link. The dragon begins to realize what's happening and struggles against its restraints, to no avail. _The heads are still free, though._ Margaery isn't close enough to be able to target the snakes around the necks. The heads are twisting madly, and it won't be long before they start melting the chains if she doesn't get to them.

 

_Time to channel my inner Gryffindor._

Margaery crawls behind the apple tree and jumps to catch the lowest hanging branch. She scrambles upwards, grateful for her climbing experience in the orchards of Highgarden. Shielded by the thick trunk, she carefully peers around and transfigures the last set of snakes. 

 

The dragon, completely unable to move or to balance, screams in fury and topples to the ground. Margaery grins and climbs a bit higher to pluck a golden apple off a branch. She makes her way deftly down the tree and jogs past the hog-tied dragon. 

 

There's a roar and a rush of heat behind her, and Margaery rolls on instinct, just barely dodging the flame that moves at ground height. _Thank the gods Arya insisted I learn a thing or two about evasion_. She glances behind her at the petulant dragon head with smoke coming out of its nostrils. She extinguishes the trees that are now on fire as she makes her way down the steep rise. 

 

Margaery shoves the apple in her pocket and scrambles down the mountain. She doesn't bother being stealthy, now that there's an angry - albeit incapacitated - dragon behind her. She emerges from the foliage to a screaming crowd, and grins. _Looks like it's Tyrell for the win._

 

* * *

 

Sansa hasn't been able to stop fidgeting since Margaery disappeared into the garden. Dany had come down from the mountain just fine, because of course she had, but Arianne had been limping badly and her robes had been singed. _Please, gods, keep Margaery safe._

"You're driving me up the wall," Arya says finally. "She'll be fine, alright? We tested that cloak ten times over."

 

"Yeah," Jeyne agrees. "How many fireballs did we throw against it last week? It'll stand up to just about anything."

 

"We didn't test it against _dragon flame_  though," Sansa says nervously. "That's a whole new level of heat."

 

"It's going to be _fine_ ," Jeyne and Arya say in unison. 

 

Sansa isn't sure. Nothing feels right. Between the danger inherent in the tournament, and Bran's vision, and her mysterious pursuer... things feel too out of control for her to feel anything but foreboding. 

 

Arya and Jeyne continue chatting. They'd both had a _very_  good time flinging all manner of curses at Margaery's cloak. Jeyne and Sansa had always been best friends growing up, but Sansa can't help but think that she and Arya would have been better friends if not for their difference in age. They share a certain chaotic energy that makes them a slightly terrifying combination. 

 

"There!" Sansa says, overwhelmed by relief. Margaery has emerged from the garden and doesn't look to have a scratch on her. _Thank the gods,_  Sansa thinks. She joins the crowd in cheering and applauding for her girlfriend and she walks the final distance to the holding area. 

 

Then there's a _whoosh_  and the dragon lands right behind her with a _thud_  in all its horrifying glory. As if in slow motion, Margaery turns, wand out, just as the dragon's flames consume her.

 

Sansa screams.

 

* * *

 

Arianne is sitting in the medical tent when it happens, getting her left leg bandaged and regretting her decision to try to blind six dragon heads at once. At least she'd succeeded, after a fashion. She stands up and flexes her knee against the bandages, and opens her mouth to tell the medic it's fine.

 

There's a roar so loud it makes the ground vibrate, knocking vials of potions off carts and rattling the metal cots.

 

Then the screaming starts.

 

Arianne gets to the door of the tent as quick as she can. The dragon is standing over a prone Margaery Tyrell, smoke coming out of all twelve of it's nostrils. Tyrell isn't moving.

 

"Where are the handlers?" Arianne shouts over her shoulder.

 

"Not here," Dany says as she races past, vaulting over the barricade to the competition area. "The wards won't let anyone else in. We're the only ones who can help."

 

Arianne looks at her, horror mounting. Embers are beginning to glow in the dragon's mouths.

 

"Well? Let's go!"

 

Arianne shakes off her terror and follows, clumsily sprinting after Dany. She vaguely registers teachers and Ministry personnel trying to take down the wards from the outside.

 

_They won't be fast enough._

 

"I'll distract them! You get Tyrell!"

 

Dany runs forward to get the dragon's attention, shooting fireworks out of her wand for good measure. The six fanged heads move to look at her at once, their serpentine synchronicity alien and disturbing.

 

Arianne crouches down in the dirt next to Tyrell. The sight of her makes Arianne queasy. Her clothing is charred, with the exception of a grey cloak covering half her face. Her legs, and the other half of her head are... Arianne gulps.

 

_Okay. Okay. This is big._ Episky  _isn't going to cut it._

 

The dragon screams behind her, six voices in eldritch harmony. _I don't have much time. Dany's good, but taking down a dragon is a lot different than sneaking by one._

 

_My best bet is to get her to the medical tent,_ Arianne thinks. _I can't do anything to heal her. This is over my head._

 

" _Levicorpus_ ," she mutters. Tyrell floats limply a few feet above the ground. The cloak moves to expose melted flesh on her cheek and forehead, and Arianne chokes back a sob. 

 

"Come on, Tyrell," she says breathlessly as she moves as fast as she can across the pitch. Pain lances from Arianne's left foot to her hip and she grits her teeth. 

 

She feels heat at her back and spins with a shield up just in time. Flames wash over the two girls and Arianne begins to sweat from exertion and heat. There's only one head breathing flame at them, but if any of the others join in they're done for.

 

Dany is expertly dodging flames, predicting the heads' movements from long experience. But six heads are a lot to deal with, even for her. She sees their predicament, though, and wrangles the head belching flames at Arianne with a flaming lasso.

 

In that moment, Arianne notices the chains still hanging around the dragon's legs and wings. _That must have been how Tyrell got past it._

 

Arianne glances at Dany. She's backpedaling and shaking flames off her sleeve. She looks back at Margaery, conflicted. 

 

Dany cries out, and that makes Arianne's decision for her. She moves the protective cloak so it's fully covering Tyrell's head and casts a continuous shield, one that will stay in place without her as long she has the strength to keep it up. _One of dad's favourite moves._  Then she limps over to the dragon, narrowly avoiding its thrashing tail.

 

She crawls under a wing and aims the strongest mending spell she knows at the links around the closest leg. The dragon tries to take a step closer to Dany, but is hemmed in. It screeches in frustration.

 

Dany gets the idea and makes a leap for the dragon's wing. Arianne dodges a massive talon and mends another break. The dragon tries to take another step and falls forward, heads writhing. Dany leaps up and skids onto the dragon's back, mending the chains at the neck and effectively immobilizing them. 

 

There's a ruckus behind them. The wards have fallen, and the medics have rushed to Tyrell's side. Arianne lets her shield down with a shaky sigh. The handlers have finally reappeared and are hurrying toward the fallen dragon.

 

Dany slides off the dragon's back and comes over to Arianne, breathing hard. The two of them lean into each other, holding each other up. Arianne's leg is in excruciating pain.

 

"The chains," Dany says, her face solemn.

 

Arianne nods grimly. She knows exactly what Dany means. The chains should have been melted or crushed, but the breaks had been almost surgically clean and precise.

 

"Someone tried to kill Tyrell."

 

* * *

 

Loras races after the gurney, Sansa keeping pace beside him. The rest of the Tyrells are following as quickly as they can, but can't match the speed of an athlete and a wolf.

 

Madame Gilly is there already, and the doors are flung open all the way through to the private room at the back. Loras makes to follow, but bounces off of a transparent ward in the doorway.

 

"Healers only, Loras," Gilly says. She's in full emergency mode, and there's no room in her voice for apology. "You can watch from out there."

 

Loras pounds the wall in frustration, and Sansa puts a hand on his shoulder in support. He catches sight of his sister's face as they transfer her to a bed, and his stomach turns. The flesh is half-melted off on one side, sickly white skin sloughing away from the red underneath. A sob catches in his throat. 

 

"Her blood pressure is dropping!" Gilly says. "We need her on fluids now!"

 

Healers scramble around the room, hooking Margaery up to various instruments. Madame Gilly stands in the centre of it all, a locus of control. Loras keeps his focus on her, her effortless competence giving him hope.

 

The rest of the Tyrells arrive as the Healers are removing the temporary dressing from Margaery's legs. Loras's mother comes up behind him and wails at the charred flesh on her daughter's body. Loras puts an arm around her, his blood roaring in his ears as two Healers begin to clean the burns.

 

Gilly mercifully steps in front of them, blocking his view before he's sick. "I need skin regrowth potion and poultices, ready to go."

 

Loras watches Gilly's efficient movements from behind. Everything is happening so quickly, but it feels like hours of clutching his mother and listening to Willas and Leonette crying softly before the Healers finally step back.

 

Margaery is covered in bandages and Loras wants to make a joke about her looking mummified before realizing that she can't hear it, that she might never hear any of his jokes ever again.

 

_Margaery._ His twin. His best friend. They're a package. Opposite sides of the same coin. Never in his life has Loras imagined a future without Margaery in it.

 

Gilly steps through the wards and surveys the assembled Tyrells and Sansa solemly. 

 

"Margaery's face was burned from the ambient heat of the dragon flame, but it looks worse than it is. The only parts of her body that weren't protected are below the knee and parts of her left arm. That's why she didn't die on the spot. But the burns on her legs are extremely severe. We're treating them - that's not the problem now. The damage was such that her body went into shock, and her fluid regulation is compromised. To put it more simply, her organs aren't getting enough blood. No blood means no oxygen. We're helping as much as we can - but we don't know yet whether we started treatment in time."

 

"And if you didn't?" Loras's grandmother is quiet and subdued, and that scares him more than anything else.

 

"Then her organs fail. Probably her heart first. And she'll die. I'm sorry."

 

Beside him, Sansa begins to tremble, although her face is stoic and her eyes dry.

 

"So what do we do now?" Loras asks hoarsely.

 

"We wait."

 

The Tyrells take seats in the Hospital Wing proper, shocked into silence. Loras's mother sits with her arm around Sansa, as though the girl herself is some kind of protective enchantment. His father stares into the distance, pale and drawn, Willas beside him doing much the same. Garlan holds a weeping Leonette close.

 

Loras climbs onto a vacant bed and draws his knees up to his chest. He closes his eyes and lets his tears fall.

 

Sometime later, Renly and Arya arrive with dinner that the Tyrells pick at. Arya embraces her sister and whispers something in her ear that makes her face go tight with fury. Loras is too exhausted to wonder about it. Renly tentatively perches on the bed next to Loras and reaches for his hand.

 

They haven't spoken since their fight. But Renly is here - for Margaery and for him. Loras pulls him close and lays his head on his chest. He falls asleep to Renly rubbing slow circles on his back.

 

He wakes with a start. Madame Gilly has emerged from Margaery's room.

 

She's smiling.

 

"Margaery is stable," she says. Loras lets out a shuddering breath. "She's quite the fighter. You can see her, but there's no telling when she'll wake. She's using all her energy for recovery now."

 

They pile into the room. Margaery is still covered in bandages, with the exception of her face, which has already begun to heal over. Gilly has applied hair regrowth potion to her head and brows were they were singed off, but it's still a bit patchy. She looks peaceful, and Loras realizes that he's crying. 

 

He and Sansa move back to give the rest of the family some space. Sansa pulls him close and they take comfort in each other for a moment. 

 

But then Sansa looks at him seriously and says in a low voice, "Arianne and Dany need to speak to us. What happened to Margaery wasn't an accident."

 

* * *

 

Arianne and Dany make their way to the Hospital wing, stepping into an alcove to avoid the Tyrell family, who have been convinced to go get some proper dinner. They approach the door just as Myrcella comes around the corner.

 

"Hey, Cella. What are you doing here?" Arianne asks with an attempt at nonchalance. It's not that she doesn't trust Myrcella. It's just... this is big.

 

"The same thing you are, I think," Myrcella replies, green eyes unreadable. "The chains, right?"

 

"How did you know?" Dany asks, startled.

 

Myrcella pulls several photographs out of her bag. "I had my camera set to take photos automatically when each winner returned. Here - I got some good shots of the dragon's bottom half." She hands a photo to Arianne, and she already knows what she'll see. _Clean breaks._

 

"Well, let's break this news together, shall we?"

 

They step into the private room, where Arya, Sansa, Renly, and Loras are gathered around the unconscious Margaery. Arianne looks at the swathes of bandages and swallows. 

 

She's surprised when Loras and Sansa stand up to embrace them. 

 

"Thank you," Loras says, his voice shaky. "You saved my sister's life."

 

_I guess we did,_ Arianne thinks. The whole thing seems so surreal. 

 

"I'm afraid we have some bad news, though," Dany says. Myrcella hands her photographs over wordlessly.

 

Renly speaks first. "The chains. A dragon couldn't cut through chains like that. It would be... messier."

 

"Exactly," Myrcella says.

 

"Someone... tried to kill my sister?" Loras says, his voice full of cold fury. Arianne doesn't know Loras well, but she's only ever seen him in good humour. Right now he looks terrifying. "Who? Why?"

 

"It can't be just for an edge in the competition," Arianne says slowly. "I'll swear an Unbreakable Oath that it wasn't me if you need me to. But it can't... it can't just be that. You don't _kill_ someone for the chance at a trophy and a thousand galleons."

 

The group falls silent. Some of them are contemplative. Some of them (well, Loras and Sansa) are simmering with rage.

 

"The Ministry," Dany says. "The power vacuum. Great Houses are at each other's throats. Old rivalries are close to the surface."

 

"Well, we have to report it," Loras says. "Tell the Ministry. Have this investigated. We just witnessed an attempted murder."

 

Arya puts a hand on Loras's arm. "I know you don't want to hear this, Loras, but hear me out. As soon as we open an investigation, the culprit will disappear."

 

Renly nods in agreement. "Whoever is behind this has plenty of power. To get through the wards, to be able to send the handlers away, and to infiltrate a competition with this tight of security... This is someone who can fade into nothing if they need to."

 

Loras stands up and begins to pace restlessly. "So what? We just do nothing? Or," he whirls to face the group, "we handle it ourselves. Find this bastard and nail them to the wall."

 

"We can't just investigate this ourselves. Not if it's bigger than just the tournament. We're stuck here at Hogwarts," Sansa says, shaking her head.

 

"Alright," says Renly, pulling Loras back down into his chair. "Who can we confide in then?"

 

"I obviously can't confide in my parents," Myrcella says dryly.

 

"Viserys is out," Dany says. "Honestly, investigating _him_ wouldn't be a bad start."

 

They turn to the Starks. Arya shakes her head. "Our brothers are busy keeping the North together. And this is... not their strong suit."

 

"And mother is friends with Littlefinger - she might tell him, and you know he can't be trusted."

 

Arianne thinks about her father. _He's always cared about children,_ she thinks. _He'd never organize an attack on a student._

 

But his scheming over the summer has left her with doubts. And he's never been fond of the Tyrells. And Uncle Oberyn - he hadn't even wanted Margaery to know the First Task was about dragons. Had he just been angling to give Arianne an advantage, or had it been something more?

 

Finally, she shakes her head. "I don't think they would do something like this. But I can't be one hundred percent sure. It's not worth the risk."

 

Loras hesitates. "I could tell Grandmother."

 

"Don't tell Grandmother."

 

Their heads whip around to Margaery. Sansa is by her side in an instant, her face wet with tears. 

 

"Help me up, darling," Margaery rasps. She's speaking with difficulty, the tight, still-healing skin on her face impeding her. Sansa gets her into a half-sitting position.

 

"Marge," Loras says, grasping her good hand. "You know I'm not always her biggest fan. But if anyone can do this without cluing in the perpetrator or starting a civil war, it's her."

 

"We'll tell her. Just not yet," Margaery says. "Think about it. A response from her, even if the response is just her digging for information, is exactly what the attacker is going to expect. Hells, it might even be a trap set for her, and I'm just collateral damage. We have to go about this in a way that no one would expect. If we do what our parents would do, we're predictable."

 

"Viserys or my mother might well have something to do with it," says Myrcella. 

 

"And Starks will be Starks, rushing into battle and trusting the wrong people - no offense," Renly says.

 

"My dad and uncle keep their cards too close to their chests to be trusted."

 

They all think on that for a while. The realization that none of their families can be trusted to do the right thing is sobering.

 

"Are you ready for this?" Myrcella asks suddenly. She's looking around the room. "Are you ready to dig for the truth, even if the truth is that one of your family members has done something unforgivable?"

 

Arianne feels sick. Dany has a pained expression on her face, but she nods tightly. 

 

"We... we have to be the ones to change things," she says. Her voice is faint, but determined. 

 

Arianne nods. "If my dad doesn't want to include me in his plans, I won't include him in mine. But I won't repeat his mistakes by holding out on you."

 

Margaery gasps through her teeth, and Sansa is by her side with milk of the poppy. 

 

Arya snaps her fingers in the silence. "Aunt Lyanna."

 

Arianne furrows her brow. "I hate to be the first person to break the news to you, but your aunt is dead, Arya."

 

Sansa grins from beside Margaery. "Dead but not gone. She's a ghost." She brings the vial up to Margaery's lips. "We've always kept it quiet. She didn't want Robert Baratheon harassing her - no offense, Renly."

 

Renly snorts. "Trust me, none taken."

 

"So we have a dead aunt who knows how to move through walls, make herself invisible, and, most importantly, _be subtle_ ," Sansa says, smiling at her sister.

 

"What about Elia?" Dany suggests. "She'll care more about a girl's safety than she ever will about politics. And no one would ever expect a Martell to be helping a Tyrell."

 

"Okay," Margaery says. "Can you write Elia? And Sansa, we'll get to Winterfell to talk to Lyanna?"

 

Arianne nods. "One thing, though - if we aren't going to tell anyone that Margaery might still be in danger, how are we going to keep her safe in the meantime? No offense, Tyrell, but you can't even move."

 

Sansa and Arya exchange a meaningful look. "We can handle that part."

 

They plan to meet the next day to discuss more details, as Margaery's strength is clearly waning. Arianne gets up to leave, but Margaery stops her.

 

"Arianne. Dany. Thank you. For saving my life."

 

Dany smiles gravely and squeezes Margaery's hand. Arianne smiles at her, and is surprised that it's entirely genuine.

 

"Well, you've grown on me, Tyrell. I decided it was better to keep you around."

 

They pass Alerie and Mace Tyrell on their way out, who both thank them profusely. Arianne doesn't miss the tinge of suspicion in their eyes, though - and who can blame them? A Martell and a Targaryen are walking out of their daughter's hospital room.

 

Dany is quiet as they walk down the corridor together.

 

"Hell of a day, hey?" Arianne says. There's clearly something bothering Dany. _Other than the attempted murder, obviously. And I can probably guess what it is._

 

Dany smiles unconvincingly.

 

"You know you can talk to me, right? About Viserys."

 

Dany's face goes blank. "Thanks. But there's nothing to talk about. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" She heads down to the dungeons. Arianne looks after her, frowning.

 

_Yeah. Sure seems like nothing._

 

* * *

 

Margaery drifts off to Sansa stroking her hand with her thumb and her mother whispering comforting words. The conversation has left her utterly spent, and she didn't even get a chance to talk to Sansa. But her legs still hurt tremendously, and she's woozy from pain killing potions. It isn't long before she's sound asleep.

 

When she awakes in the night, her mother is gone, and there's a giant red direwolf laying between her and the door, illuminated by the moonlight. Margaery smiles and is relieved that it feels easier than before.

 

Sansa notices she's awake, and pads over to the bed. Margaery stares in wonder. She hasn't seen Sansa transform since that night in the forest - she hasn't asked, and Sansa hasn't offered. But now the wolf is right in front of her. _She's beautiful._

 

She reaches out a hand then stops, unsure of whether she's allowed to touch or not. Sansa butts into her hand with her head and Margaery giggles. She strokes Sansa's head tentatively. Her girlfriend's animal eyes are too knowing, though, and Margaery's hand begins to shake.

 

_I should be dead._

 

The flames had surrounded her, consumed her, her only saving grace the cloak that she'd thrown in front of her face in the nick of time. The pain... gods, the pain had been excruciating, the shock of smelling her own burning flesh even worse.

 

She buries her face in Sansa's neck and cries, great wrenching sobs that feel like they're being torn out of her. She cries until her body hurts from her heaving inhales and her hands are numb from being so tightly fisted in Sansa's fur. Gradually her breathing evens out, matching the deep, steadying breaths of the wolf.

 

And then she's touching skin, not fur, and Sansa is climbing into the bed with her and holding her tightly. Margaery can feel Sansa's pulse against her lips, the rhythmic thrum of blood in her veins, and it reminds her that she's _alive, alive, alive._

 

She wakes again in the sparse daylight of the early morning. Sansa is awake and watching her, and Margaery almost feels afraid of what her face looks like. Sansa is looking at her in a way that quells any feelings of self-consciousness, though.

 

"I thought... I thought that was it for me," Margaery whispers. Sansa's eyes are shining with tears.

 

"I was so scared," Sansa says. Her eyes are intent, and Margaery wonders if she looked away from her at all during the night.

 

"You protected me," Margaery says. She looks over Sansa's shoulder at the cloak where it's draped over a chair. The Stark colours remind her of Lyanna, and she shudders. _That could have been me. One more girl who died too young._

 

She runs a hand down Sansa's cheek. _To never see her again, to never touch her again. To never hear her laugh, or make plans for the future..._

 

Sansa snaps her out of her downward spiral. 

 

"I'll always protect you," she says fiercely.

 

Margaery kisses her hard, clutching Sansa to her with a kind of desperation she's never felt before. She revels in the softness of Sansa's lips, her hot skin under Margaery's hands. She moves to cup Sansa's face and opens her mouth to let the other girl's tongue in.

 

Sansa's cheeks are wet. Margaery pulls back.

 

"What is it, sweet girl?" Sansa's eyes are brimming with tears, making them shimmer. Her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed.

 

"Just... everything," Sansa says with a watery laugh. "I'm not upset. I just have too many feelings all at once."

 

"I get that," Margaery says. And she does. Fear and relief and joy are all jostling for room inside her.

 

Sansa is looking at her again, like she did this morning, like she has something to say on the tip of her tongue. Her face is so open and tender that Margaery feels her heart in her throat with every breath.

 

"I love you," Sansa whispers.

 

Margaery takes a sharp breath. _Sansa Stark is in love with me._

 

It feels like something falling into place. Like she was just waiting for something without knowing what it was. It feels right in a way that nothing else ever has.

 

_Sansa._

 

Margaery leans forward and kisses her again, softly this time.

 

"I love you, too."

 

They lay like that for a while, just looking at one another. Margaery tries to shift even closer, but cries out at the sudden pain in her legs.

 

Sansa kisses her forehead and strokes her hair comfortingly.

 

"You're due for some more milk of the poppy, I think." She gets up and retrieves a vial from a tray. Margaery kicks her sheets off her legs.

 

"I sweated through these in the night," she complains.

 

"My fault," Sansa says as she hands Margaery the potion. "Dogs and wolves run hot."

 

Margaery grabs Sansa's wrist. "Stay with me?"

 

"Won't your mother have something to say about me being in your bed when she comes in?" But Sansa is already climbing back in.

 

Margaery finds her wand on the bedside table and considers the sheets. She summons her cloak from the other side of the room instead and lets Sansa wrap it around them. She settles into Sansa's arms and sleep takes her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that everyone! If anyone else loves watching terrible TV, YES Cersei's entrance was inspired by Alice Cooper's entrance in season 2 (I think?) of Riverdale.


	10. Team Player

Loras makes his way back from the pitch, chatting with Nymeria and Daario. The students from the other schools had been avoiding his Quidditch friendlies, probably fearing foul play. But after the First Task, something had shifted. The Sand Snakes had begun to show up, and Daenerys had joined them today, Daario in tow, even though Hogwarts and the Free Cities would have their match in just a week. Dornish and Essosi students who aren't on their schools' Quidditch teams have begun to show up too, lured by the prospect of flying on decent school brooms. It's made the sessions even more fun, especially since they mix up the teams. 

 

"Loras!"

 

Bran Stark is coming towards him, fixing him with that unsettling stare. Loras waves goodbye to the others and meets the younger boy halfway across the green.

 

_I wonder what he's been up to this afternoon? Sharing the brain of a blast-ended skrewt? Looking into the thousand possible outcomes of a butterfly flapping its wings in the Forbidden Forest?_ Loras likes Bran, but his abilities break Loras's brain a little bit.

 

"Hey Bran, what do you need?

 

"Loras. I need an apprenticeship with your brother."

 

Loras raises an eyebrow. "With Willas? Um, I'm sure that can be arranged. You're a bit young, though. He might tell you to wait till next year."

 

Bran shakes his head, wheeling towards the lake. "It has to be now. It'll be convenient, too - I can help you with your NEWT potions project on the properties of Northern nightshades in analgesics."

 

"But my NEWT potions project isn't on - wait. You don't actually care about a potions apprenticeship, do you?"

"No," Bran admits with a smile. "I need an excuse to leave school grounds and go home. I have to commune with the Weirwood."

 

Loras screws his eyes shut. "This is going to be some intense end of the world shit, isn't it?"

 

"We're headed towards a catastrophic end of days scenario, yes," Bran says, staring out over the water.

 

"Lay it on me."

 

"I need your help to stop an encroaching apocalype wherein the world becomes a frozen hellscape."

 

Loras sighs deeply and leans on his broom.

 

_Life was simple, once._

"What's my project on? Northern - "

 

"Nightshades. In analgesics. I wrote your proposal already."

 

_Well, that's something._

Summer comes loping up. Bran's eyes flash yellow for a second. Loras massages his temples.

 

Bran smiles. It's a combination of mischievous and otherworldly. 

 

"Come on, Loras. It''s be fun."

 

_Gods help me._

* * *

 

Myrcella makes her way reluctantly to her Uncle Jaime's chambers. As much as she tries to avoid him, she can't deny that having a family dinner for Tommen's nameday is a nice idea.

 

She stops in front of the painting of Ser Cadogan and clears her throat. The knight's horse rears up impressively.

 

"Lady Baratheon! Tales of your beauty have spread throughout the land, but they haven't done your visage justice."

 

Myrcella feels herself beginning to grin. "The password is _Oathkeeper_ ," she says.

 

The painting swings open, and Myrcella climbs through to Uncle Jaime's chambers. Surprisingly, she's the last one to arrive. Uncle Jaime is bustling around, setting the table, and Joffrey is slouched in a chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. Tommen is flitting around the room, admiring the photographs of Uncle Jaime in various exotic locales on assignment. The combination dining room/sitting room is decorated entirely in red and gold. _I guess that's to be expected from a Lannister who_ also _happens to be a Gryffindor._  The dueling trophies that had littered Uncle Jaime's house are conspicuously absent.

 

"Cella!" Tommen runs towards her and Myrcella hugs him, smiling at her younger brother's exuberance.

 

They join Joffrey at the table. The meal is Tommen's favourite - steak and kidney pie. Myrcella smiles. She knows that the House Elves made the meal, but it's still thoughtful. Uncle Jaime gives her a tentative smile over his plate and for once Myrcella forgets to give him the cold shoulder. 

 

"How have your classes been going, Tommen? Is Charms still your favourite?"

 

Joffrey snorts before Tommen can respond. "Charms is for - "

 

" - champion duelists," Uncle Jaime interrupts smoothly. "It was my best subject as well. Not that you have to start dueling."

 

Tommen smiles a bit nervously. "Yeah. I don't know if I'm interested in dueling. But Professor Forel says that if I keep working hard, he'll let me shadow the field medics at the Dueling Club next term." Myrcella grins proudly.

 

"Professor Forel? Gods," Joffrey sneers. "That man is a - "

 

" - celebrity, basically. A dueling champion, known internationally. Didn't you duel him, Uncle?" _Any port in a storm,_ Myrcella thinks.

 

"I did. It was at the end of his career. I beat him in sudden death overtime. It was a very narrow thing, and had he been just a bit younger and quicker, I can't say with confidence that I would have come out on top."

 

They continue on like that through dessert (treacle tart), making conversation and deflecting Joffrey's rude comments. To Myrcella's surprise, she and her uncle make a pretty good team. _Maybe he's not just a dumb Gryffindor after all._

Uncle Jaime nudges Joffrey, and he produces a gift. Tommen's face lights up when he opens the stack of comic books - there's Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle, The Adventures of Dunk n' Egg, and even a collected edition of BLOODRAVEN.

 

"Thanks, Joff," Tommen says shyly. Myrcella is impressed. _It might be the first nice thing he's ever done for either of us._

Joffrey shrugs and opens his mouth to respond, but Uncle Jaime hurriedly pushes his own gift towards Tommen. Myrcella understands, then. The comics aren't from Joffrey at all. Uncle Jaime picked them out.

 

Tommen exclaims over the new pair of omnioculars from Uncle Jaime ( _for bird watching, the little nerd,_  Myrcella thinks fondly) and the Hufflepuff sweater from Myrcella. Joffrey beats a hasty retreat once Tommen is done opening his gifts. Uncle Jaime looks frustrated, but it's impossible to ignore that Tommen becomes more talkative as soon as his brother leaves.

 

"Rickon, Shireen, Robin, and Lyanna came to sit with Pod and I at lunch," he says, not having dared to mention his friends in Joffrey's presence. "Rickon got Bran and Arya to pick up a huge bar of chocolate at Honeydukes last Hogsmeade weekend - seriously, it's as long as a broom! - and they all went in on it." Myrcella feels pathetically relieved and grateful. _Thank the gods Tommen hasn't had trouble making friends._  The whispers behind their backs aren't as bad as what the Starks had to endure, since the Tournament is providing entertainment enough, but it's enough that she's been worried about her sensitive brother. His new friend Pod is proving to be a loyal companion, though, and Shireen told her Myrcella privately that none of the other First Years will risk bullying Tommen for fear of what Rickon and Lyanna would do to them.

 

Myrcella watches Uncle Jaime listen enthusiastically to Tommen's stories about his friends. Living in a family like hers has at the very least made Myrcella a keen observer of adult behaviour, and she has to admit that Uncle Jaime seems sincerely invested in Tommen.

 

Myrcella hangs back when Tommen makes his way back to the common room. Uncle Jaime smiles nervously at her, and for a moment he looks so much like Tommen that all she can do is stare.

 

"That went alright, I think. It was nice of you to get him that Hufflepuff sweater - we haven't had a 'Puff in the family since your great-grandfather. Hopefully Tommen had a nice time."

 

"He had a great time," Myrcella says honestly, examining a medieval tapestry to avoid looking at her Uncle's unbearably earnest face. "Father - Robert - would get like this too, sometimes. Sober up for a few days and remember we existed and be thoughtful and attentive. Get our hopes up and then drop off the face of the earth for three weeks because he'd rather be at a brothel than at home. Then come back just to yell at Tommen and Joffrey for not being man enough, or brood so heavily that it drove all of us to silence." She glances at her uncle. He's gritting his teeth, and not for the first time she waits for him to raise his hand at her.

 

He notices her tension and his face softens. "I'm sorry. I just - I've always hating that son of bitch." Myrcella opens her mouth, but Uncle Jaime keeps going. "Obviously hating him and doing something about his behaviour are two different things, and my inaction makes me a coward." _Couldn't have said it better myself._ "But I understand what you're getting at. I'm not going anywhere. This isn't a one-time thing. I'm here now. For you, too, if you'll let me."

 

Myrcella looks at him sideways. There is part of her, a small fragile part that belongs to the girl who stood in the kitchen watching her uncle leave all those years ago, that aches to let him in. She can see the change in Tommen. And for her, too, despite herself. Uncle Jaime has become a sort of constant that she's never had before. 

 

_But I can't trust him_ , she thinks as he uncorks a bottle of wine. _At best, he'll just leave when he's tired of playing at being a dad. At worst, he's part of whatever sordid plot led to Margaery almost being burnt alive._

"I'll have a glass," Myrcella says as Uncle Jaime turns back to the table. She hardens her heart to her guilt at the hope on his face and sits down at the table with him.

 

_I can't trust him. But I owe it to Sansa and Margaery to get what information I can out of him. If that means playing nice, then so be it._

"Tell me all about Quidditch," Uncle Jaime says, smiling. Myrcella starts talking, sipping her wine and waiting for an opening. A wave of exhaustion hits her.

 

She wonders if this is how her mother feels.

 

* * *

 

Sansa wakes up to someone padding over to the washroom. She raises her snout and sniffs. Just Jeyne. Mya has already gone down for breakfast, and Margaery snores lightly from Sansa's bed. They'd decided it was better for Margaery to spend her nights in the Gryffindor dormitory for the time being, since Jeyne and Mya both know about Sansa's skin-changing abilities.

 

Jeyne comes out of the washroom and scratches behind Sansa's ears. She growls playfully and her friend laughs.

 

Sansa transforms, bones creaking, and starts to get dressed.

 

"How do you feel about seeing your parents today?" Jeyne asks, pulling on her Hogwarts jumper.

 

Sansa grimaces. Her parents are coming to watch Arya play in the Quidditch game versus Essos. She and her mother have been exchanging cordial letters all term, but they still haven't addressed their... disagreement about the company the children keep. Rickon has continued to hang around Tommen Baratheon, so Sansa can at least surmise that her mother hasn't been putting any thoughts in his head. _Honestly, telling Rickon to do something will only ensure that he does the opposite._

"I don't know. I've missed them, and I want to see them. But things are weird, especially with mum, and I feel like everything will be overshadowed by this being dad's first public appearance since Azkaban anyway." Sansa and her mother usually talk about everything. Having her at arms length these past few months has left an empty space, but unfortunately, mother and daughter are alike in stubbornness.

 

Jeyne pats her on the shoulder sympathetically. "Well, at least there's Quidditch. This'll be an intense match-up. I hope Arya breaks some heads."

 

"Arya is a Chaser."

 

"My point stands."

 

Mya returns from breakfast and Margaery starts to wake up. She gets out of bed, grunts at Sansa and Jeyne, and shuffles to the washroom. Jeyne raises an eyebrow. "Isn't she normally a morning person?"

 

"Yeah. But healing from her injuries has taken a lot out of her. Not to mention the prep she has to do for the Tournament. The Second Task is coming up in the new year." Sansa glances at the golden apple sitting beside her bed, a puzzle that none of the three champions has yet been able to solve.

 

"Maybe it's a good thing she didn't make Head Girl after all," Jeyne says, too low for Margaery to hear from the next room. "She wouldn't have time to sleep a wink all year. Although I guess if she'd made Head Girl she probably wouldn't have entered."

 

Sansa drops her brush with a clatter.

 

"Mya," she says suddenly. "Who decides who makes Prefect and Heads?"

 

Mya pauses in pulling on her boots. "Um, the teachers, of course... the Heads and the House Heads. But the Board of Governers gets a say, too."

 

Sansa's mind whirls furiously. The Board of Governers is filled with members of old families, so it doesn't narrow things down much. But she can't shake the thought - _what if someone wanted to make sure Margaery entered the tournament? And made sure she didn't make Head Girl, so she had the time and impetus?_

Sansa glances at her friends. They catch up to her train of thought.

 

Mya claps Sansa on the shoulder on her way out the door. "I have to head down to the pitch for warm-ups. But you know I'm ready and willing if you need someone to throw down, Stark."

 

Margaery comes out of the washroom just in time to wish Mya luck, and the three girls head down to breakfast. 

 

The atmostphere is charged in the Great Hall as the students of the three schools get ready to watch the game. There's even more crossover than usual at House tables, everyone putting their school loyalty first today, so the girls elect to join Rickon and his posse at the Hufflepuff table, where they're sitting with Tommen and Podrick.

 

A cup of coffee appears in front of Sansa, and she inhales reverently. _Seriously, the best part of the day._ She reaches for her cup, eyes still closed - 

 

It's not there.

 

Her eyes snap open just in time to watch Margaery take a long gulp, wince, and add a little more cream. Sansa gapes at her. Even Jeyne is stunned to silence. Rickon stops his monologue about how awesome Arya and Loras are mid-sentence and his eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

 

"What?" Margaery says innocently, that shit-eating gleam in her eyes. "I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about."

 

_Remember that you love this woman. You love her. You love her._  Sansa chants in her head. Margaery grins at her and snaps her fingers, and another cup appears in front of Sansa.

 

"You could have just gotten your own in the first place," Sansa says with a raised brow, only partially mollified.

 

"I wanted to see the look on your face," Margaery says without a trace of guilt. Jeyne barks a laugh.

 

"You know, Tyrell, I could get used to you."

 

Margaery smirks and Sansa can't help but smile back. Her legs are fully healed now, and all that remains of her injuries is some faint scarring across her jaw that she hadn't let Gilly spell away ("I want to remember," Margaery had said with grim determination, and no one had argued). What matters is that she's here, and alive, and well enough to get up to her usual mischief.

 

They head down towards the pitch, stopping at the drive where the public is arriving from Hogsmeade. The Martells arrive, and the Starks wave at them before they wander off to find Arianne. Margaery points out several wizards and one witch in professional-looking robes - "League scouts," she says, and Sansa can feel her anxiety for Loras to do well today.

 

The Tyrells arrive, and Margaery is smothered by their embraces even though they'd only left Hogwarts a week ago. Sansa isn't spared either; by the time she emerges from Garlan and Willas's combined bear hug, her parents are stepping out of a carriage with the Pooles and the Reeds.

 

Sansa hasn't seen them since the summer, and so much has happened since then. She lets herself be pulled into her father's embrace and take comfort in his solid warmth.

 

She pulls back to see her mother embracing Margaery. "I won't make a big issue of it," Catelyn declares, stepping back to look at her, "but I'm glad you're safe."

 

Sansa meets her mother's eyes. She knows her mother has noted Rickon and Tommen standing companionably together. Catelyn nods, and Sansa understands. Truce. They're in a snake's den of Great Houses and Ministry bigwigs. Their disagreement can wait; now is the time to present a united front. They hug, but Sansa tenses when she looks over her mother's shoulder.

 

Cersei is ten feet away, and coming closer.

 

Sansa becomes very aware of Tommen Baratheon a mere three feet away from her and thinks helplessly that Myrcella would have managed this better.

 

Cersei hugs Tommen and then turns her attention to the Starks. Sansa's heart just about stops. She grips Margaery's hand tightly. Her parents and Cersei are seeing each other for the first time since her father got out of Azkaban, and the tension is suffocating. And on top of the simmering fury that Sansa can _smell_  coming off of her parents is the secret between them all that they are complicit in: the parentage of the Baratheon children, and the dubious guilt of Robert Baratheon.

 

Catelyn breaks the silence. "Cersei, such a surprise to see you out and about. I had thought you busy getting your new household together." _That's right. Robert's not Minister anymore. They'll have moved out of the Red Keep_.

 

Cersei's expression falters for less than an instant before she's ready with a rejoinder. "I don't expect to be gone from the Red Keep for long. I'm sure you've heard about my campaign."

 

Olenna Tyrell is watching raptly, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two women.

 

"I do applaud your effort," Catelyn says, her tone somewhere between polite and patronizing, and impossible to pin down. "There's so little to do once the children are all grown and in school, isn't there?"

 

_Courtesy is a lady's armour,_ Sansa recalls her mother telling her. _But maybe it can be a lady's weapon, too._

Tommen and Cersei start for the stands after a stilted goodbye, Pod trailing along behind. Shireen, looking miserable, makes to follow, and Sansa surmises that her aunt isn't kind to her.

 

"Shireen," Sansa calls. "You're to stay with us, remember? Your Uncle Renly is meeting us." 

 

"He wanted to sit with you at your first Hogwarts Quidditch game," Margaery adds, catching on. _I mean, it's probably true,_  Sansa thinks.

 

Cersei huffs and waves the girl off, and Sansa gets an odd look from her mother and a considering one from Olenna, but she doesn't care. The pathetic gratitude on Shireen's half-scaled face is enough for Sansa to take a stab at exactly the kind of things Cersei probably made underhanded comments about. _What an utter bitch_.

 

The Mormont sisters come piling out of a carriage, plus Asha Greyjoy, who is arm-in-arm with Alysane. Sansa raises an eybrow at them as they head to the pitch, their party complete, and the two of them just shrug and grin. Lyra and Jory, recently graduated, ply Margaery for gossip, and Dacey swings a cackling Lyanna onto her shoulders. 

 

Bran and Jojen have saved them a considerable section of the stands. Renly and Professor Seaworth arrive as they're all sitting down, and Renly grabs Shireen and plops her down between them. Shireen gives Sansa a shy smile and begins to whisper in her uncle's ear.

 

The voice of Trystane Martell reverberates around the pitch. "Please welcome to the pitch Professor Ellaria Sand, your referee for today! And facing off for the first time, give it up for the teams from Hogwarts and the Free Cities Academy!"

 

The crowd roars as the players take to the air, and Margaery grabs Sansa's arm excitedly. Arya takes possession of the Quaffle immediately and Sansa is taken aback when her father leaps up and howls his approval beside her. He catches her eye and grins, and for the first time in months he seems like his whole self. 

 

Sansa cups her hands around her mouth and soon the whole Stark family is howling as Arya scores the first goal.

 

* * *

 

Myrcella passes to Missandei and veers sharply to avoid a Bludger, then catches the Quaffle and fakes to the left hoop. She passes the ball directly overhead to Arya instead, who scores through the right hoop. Their victory is short-lived, though, as the Essosi Chasers immediately start back down the pitch towards the Hogwarts goals. Irri and Jhiqui are tireless, and Doreah feeds them the Quaffle much like Myrcella does for Arya and Missandei. After and hour and half of play, Hogwarts is winning by a mere thirty points.

 

Loras zips by Doreah mere inches away from the minimum distance he has to keep between them, and the Essosi girl hesitates just long enough for Myrcella to snatch the Quaffle and pass it off to Missandei. She grins at Loras and he winks. There's a rush of air and Myrcella and Loras flip upside-down on their brooms almost in tandem to avoid a Bludger. They straighten up and Myrcella looks after it, frowning. _I was positive that both Bludgers were headed towards Arya._ As she watches, though, the Bludger turns abruptly in mid-air, nowhere near a Beater, and heads towards Loras again.

 

"Look out!" Myrcella shouts. Loras ducks and swivels on his broom. The Bludger changes direction again, even quicker this time, and Loras darts to the side. It's obvious at this point that the Bludger is only going after Loras. The Beaters from both teams are shouting in confusion.

 

" _It looks like Maar has seen the Snitch!"_ Myrcella curses. She's never been less happy to hear her boyfriend's voice. "Loras, wait!"

 

But Loras is taking off after Lysano Maar, pushing his broom to its limit. The Snitch shoots this way and that, Lysano and Loras following it, and the Bludger following them. Loras is banking left and right and corkscrewing with an agility that Myrcella has never seen in _anyone_ to avoid the Bludger while staying on the Snitch's tail. 

 

The crowd is on their feet screaming, and Myrcella can hear the confusion in Trystane's voice as he looks for words to explain what's happening. Lysano is fatiguing, and Loras has to be getting tired, too, but the Snitch and the Bludger show no signs of slowing. 

 

They fly mere feet away from Myrcella, and she sees the Snitch appear just a few feet above Loras's head. But the Bludger is headed straight for him, and Lysano is stretching out his hand...

 

Loras scrambles to stand on his brooms and _jumps._

Myrcella screams. Loras snatches the Snitch from the air and spreadeagles, his back to the quickly advancing ground. He summons his broom with his left hand and gets it underneath him just a moment before he would have hit the turf. 

 

The people in the crowd are beside themselves, but the players are still shaken. The Beaters quickly fly down to protect Loras, but not quick enough.

 

On his feet now, Loras leaps out of the way. But the movement puts Lysano Maar between him and the Bludger, and Bludger looks like it's going to fly straight through the younger boy to get to Loras.

 

Loras pushes Lysano out of the way just in time, but at his own expense. The Bludger hits him square in the chest with a sick _crunch_. 

 

Then Daario and Belwas are there. The two boys throw themselves bodily on top of the Bludger and between the two of them wrestle it to ground. Professor Sand pulls out her wand and begins chanting every dispeling charm Myrcella has ever heard of. 

 

She runs up to Loras, who is groaning in pain. Madame Gilly is already by his side. 

 

"It's just broken ribs," Gilly concludes, her diagnostics done. "But on the other hand, it's broken ribs. You're in for a tough day of bone mending, Tyrell."

 

Loras catches sight of Myrcella. "Did we win?"

 

Myrcella rolls her eyes at him, too relieved to actually be irritated. "Yes. We won."

 

"Some bad luck for you and for your sister, recently," Gilly says, expression unreadable.

 

_Yeah,_  Myrcella thinks as she makes her way to the locker room. _Bad luck._

The team is subdued as they come back to their locker room after showering. Myrcella meets Arya's gaze and they share a meaningful look. 

 

"Why the long faces?"

 

The team greets Loras with cheers and careful back slapping. He's wearing the bandages that Madame Gilly applied at the pitch, but has clearly refused to go to the Hospital Wing without seeing his team first. 

 

"I know that today wasn't what we expected. There was definitely something going on, and I promise you that I will make _sure_  none of us step back onto that pitch until a full investigation is done. In the meantime, though, let's celebrate! Party in the Gryffindor common room, eight o'clock. I expect to see all of your beautiful talented faces there."

 

Myrcella smiles, and marvels at how Loras can get an entire room of people to follow him with a word. She's still smiling when she hefts her bag over her shoulder and leaves the locker room.

 

Her smile freezes on her face as she sees her Uncle Jaime emerging from the equipment storage room.

 

"What are you doing here?" Myrcella doesn't recognize her own voice. Uncle Jaime's eyes widen. They stand facing each other in the hallway, both of them well aware of what this looks like.

 

"I was helping Professor Tarth inspect the equipment," Uncle Jaime says slowly. "Myrcella. I promise. That's what I was doing."

 

"Where's Professor Tarth, then?"

 

Myrcella's heart is beating in her ears. Somehow, even though she's tried so hard to distance herself from her uncle, the idea of him actually being the one who's trying to hurt students, or at least one student, makes her want to throw up. Uncle Jaime looks at her helplessly. 

 

"I found them!" Myrcella whirls around. Professor Tarth is coming down the hallway, a stack of parchment in her hand. "The equipment sign-out logs. Oh - Myrcella!" Professor Tarth turns pink for no reason that Myrcella can discern. " _Excellent_  flying today. I spoke to a few of the scouts and they had very complimentary things to say about you."

 

Myrcella turns back to her Uncle. She feels unexpectedly terrible. _Stop it. Just because he wasn't doing anything sketchy in this moment doesn't mean he wasn't doing anything sketchy at all._ Uncle Jaime is trying to mask the hurt on his face. Myrcella opens her mouth to say _something,_ anything to break the tension.

 

"Myrcella!"

 

_Fuck_.

 

Her mother is striding down the hallway towards them, heels clicking on the tile floor. Myrcella can feel Uncle Jaime's discomfort, but it's too late to do anything. _I really wish I didn't have to be here for this._ Myrcella imagines that Professor Tarth is thinking the same thing. 

 

"You did a wonderful job today, Myrcella," Cersei says, green eyes sharp. "I wish you wouldn't hide your light under a bushel, though. Surely you could have scored more of your own goals instead of always passing to your...teammates."

 

"Myrcella is actually an incredibly important player on the team," Professor Tarth says, clutching the equipment logs to her chest. "Her play style is the glue that holds all the Chasers together. Without her they would be far less strong."

 

The way her mother looks Professor Tarth up and down, and then looks from her to Uncle Jaime and back again is more scathing than any words could ever be. _It's ugly,_  Myrcella thinks suddenly, _the way she makes people feel small._

 

"Well, I'd better have a look at these," Professor Tarth says, not quite fleeing. "It was nice to see you, Lady Baratheon."

 

"Lannister," her mother says as Professor Tarth moves to leave. "I'm divorcing my husband. Lady Lannister will be fine." Professor Tarth glances at Myrcella, then nods shortly and goes. _I wish I could go with her_.

 

"I wanted to tell you earlier, dear, but I didn't want you to lose focus before your match."

 

Myrcella is very aware of Uncle Jaime, standing unacknowledged beside them. "Is that... wise? Given everything that's happened?" _Given the extremely tentative balance of power you and Ned Stark have at the moment?_

"If I'm going to run for Minister, I need to have a very clear break between me and the corruption Robert represents. It's for the best, dear. Lannisters are _bold_. We must dare greatly if we want our time in the sun."

 

" _Your_ time in the sun, you mean," Uncle Jaime says. Myrcella glances at him. He's simmering with rage. "You're only thinking about yourself. When you need to think about what's best for your family. About the safety of _our_  - "

 

"Of our _what_ , Jaime?" Cersei says. She's daring him to say it. The two of them lock green eyes, both passionately angry, her mother cold and her father hot. They look more alike than ever. 

 

Jaime's eyes dart to Myrcella and he backs down. "This isn't the time or place."

 

"You'd do well to keep your nose out of _my_ affairs, Jaime." Cersei kisses Myrcella on the cheek and leaves without awaiting a response. Uncle Jaime and Myrcella both deflate a little once she's gone. 

 

"I'm not going to, you know." Myrcella raises an eyebrow at Uncle Jaime, too tired to speak. "Keep my nose out of things. At least where you're concerned. I'm not doing that anymore."

 

Myrcella leans against the wall and nods. She doesn't have enough fight in her to argue with him, or tell him that it's too little to late.

 

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

Bran leads Loras through the gates of Winterfell, grudgingly going slowly so that the older boy can take it in. His parents greet them in the yard, and Bran lets his mother pull him into a fierce hug. 

 

Bran's father shakes Loras's hand firmly. "We appreciate you doing this, Loras. I know your plate isn't exactly empty this year. You flew spectacularly on the weekend, by the way, despite all the factors against you."

 

Loras smiles modestly. Bran knows that he's more shaken by the experience than he wants to admit. "Thank you. I'm given to understand that there may be some pretty high stakes things happening, so I'm happy to help out."

 

Robb and Jon clatter down the stairs. "Robb will help you gather the things you actually need for your project," Bran says. He has the sense that this is the correct choice of parties. "Will you come with me to the Godswood, Jon?"

 

Jon nods and whistles to Ghost. "How's your term going? Other than the Triwizard drama."

 

"It's alright," Bran says. To be honest, he hasn't even thought much about his classes, for all that he's excelling in them. "It's... this is too big. Whatever I'm sensing. It's taking over everything - it's like there's no room in my brain for anything else." Even Jojen has been worried, and if anyone understands having weird shit taking up space in your brain, it's Jojen. "I feel like my own life is secondary right now. I feel like... a vessel for something bigger."

 

_And I don't like it._

"How were things with the giants?"

 

Jon frowns. They get deeper into the forest, snow crunching under Bran's wheels. 

 

"It was... weird. They wanted to talk, not fight, which was good. But they reported seeing people in their territory, Not Wildlings. From south of the Wall. But they weren't Black Brothers, and they weren't Stark forces. So who were they? And why were they there?"

 

Bran chews his lip. "That's strange. Very strange. I'll try to take a look."

 

They reach the heart tree, and Bran immediately feels better. He levitates across the spring and puts his hand on the red, dripping, face, feeling the thrum of connectedness with every living thing. Jon settles in at the edge of the clearing with Ghost. Jon is Bran's favourite companion at times like this. There is a quiet stillness to his not-brother's energy that brings Bran focus instead of distracting him.

 

_Alright, let's do this._

Bran lets his mind go free and _looks_.

 

Bright blue eyes stare back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Hope the season has been treating you well! I've been a bit unwell, so I apologize for the slow updating. Thanks for reading :)


	11. I Need to Talk to You About Something

The Room of Requirement looks like an Essosi bathhouse when Dany arrives. Loras, Arya, and Myrcella are already there, stretching and complaining in the heat. _That's right,_ Dany thinks, _they just had Quidditch practice._  Dany transfigures her clothes into a bathing suit and joins them gladly, slipping into a hot pool. As exciting as Hogwarts is, it's _cold_  compared to Essos or Dorne. Dany has never spent this many consecutive days in a place with snow on the ground.

 

Arianne comes through the door, groaning in happiness when the hot air hits her. Sansa, Margaery, and Renly aren't far behind. 

 

"So," Arianne says, settling in on a bench and letting steam wash over her skin, "we have to get Elia into Hogwarts to check out what went down when Head girl and Head boy were decided. Any ideas?"

 

"Usually parents aren't allowed on the grounds unless they need to speak with their heir about estate issues, or if their child is sick or injured," Margaery says. 

 

"So, Aegon," Dany surmises.

 

"Elia doesn't have much of an estate to talk about," Arianne muses. "And Uncle Oberyn is here to pass on messages anyway, so it wouldn't really make sense for her to come down for that reason."

 

Arya stretches one arm across her chest and grins lazily. "Injured or sick it is then."

 

"No problems here," Arianne says, glowering. Dany grimaces. Aegon has been downright frosty to his cousin since she was selected as Champion over him. 

 

"He's being an ass right now, but he's still our family," Dany reminds her.

 

"We wouldn't have to do anything drastic," Arianne argues. "Just... slip a Skiving Snackbox into his lunch, get him sick enough for Elia to come down, and give him the counter-charm as soon as we can. Elia is concerned, insists on staying the night, Uncle Oberyn offers to put her up in his chambers, easy peasy."

 

Sansa seems to sense Dany's discomfort. "There's no way we can trust him? Even with just a bit of the truth?"

 

"We could tell him you need Elia's help for something Tournament-related," Renly suggests, moving from a hot pool to a cold one. 

 

"And expect him to cooperate?" Arianne scoffs. "Not bloody likely."

 

"So tell Oberyn as well," says Margaery. She's blissed out in the water next to Sansa, an arm flung over her girlfriend's shoulders, but her eyes are still sharp. "Then you have a fail-safe. Aegon can't double-cross you without answering to Oberyn. And Oberyn won't think twice about Elia sneaking out of his chambers in the middle of the night."

 

"You don't even have to tell him what you need from her specifically," Arya points out. "There's something to be said for plausible deniability. You can even tell him how close he and Professor H'ghar came to being found out by a bunch of first years."

 

"It's settled then," Dany says. "Arianne, you talk to your uncle. I'll talk to Aegon. He'll probably respond to me better." _He hasn't exactly been friendly to me either, I suppose. He's jealous of both of us._ Still. Aegon and Dany don't have the same kind of baggage that he and Arianne do. 

 

"Alright," Arianne says reluctantly. "Anything on your end, Myrcella?"

 

"No," Myrcella says, sighing. "My uncle seems more concerned with trying to make Joffrey less of a pissant than anything else. My mother... well. I think I'll have a better idea once the candidates start campaigning directly in the new year. I'm pretending to be very interested in her strategy in letters, though - hopefully she'll drop a clue as to what she's up to."

 

"Viserys has taken up residence on Dragonstone," Dany says. The drafty old castle is the only property in Westeros her brother had inherited directly from their father. "He's too busy flushing out boggarts and doxies to do much of anything else at the moment."

 

Loras sighs. "So. Back to one lead, then."

 

"Better than no leads," says Dany, lifting herself out of the pool and spelling herself dry. "I'll go talk to Aegon."

 

She finds him on the Quidditch Pitch, running drills alone. Dorne plays Essos in the new year, and Aegon clearly doesn't intend to lose. She watches him for a moment, then summons her own broom and snatches the Quaffle he's enchanted to fly at the rings. 

 

"Better to have the real thing, right?"

 

Aegon looks up at her, surprised, then grins at her for the first time since the champions were announced. Dany swoops in, fakes, and throws for the left hoop, which he blocks easily. She's already conjured another ball, though, and Aegon barely gets a hand in front of it before Dany has another one in her hand. Dany has never been amazing at Quidditch, but she remembers spending long afternoons in the summer helping Aegon prepare for the coming season. They continue like that for a while, Dany's quick spellwork evening out the playing field, until Aegon throws his hands up, laughing. 

 

"That was more of a workout than I've had all week, I think!"

 

They land and begin the walk back to the castle in companionable silence. Aegon is prideful, and arrogant, and has a fragile ego... not unlike Viserys, in fact. And not unlike her brother Rhaegar, from what she's heard. But there's much of his mother in him, too, so Dany knows that all she has to do is wait.

 

"I'm sorry," Aegon begins. "I've been an ass. I've just been... frustrated, and jealous, and too focused on myself to be happy for you and Arianne." Dany smiles and lets him continue. "And it should have been me who approached you, not the other way around."

 

"I forgive you," Dany says. "And don't think me too self-sacrificing. I've missed you, it's true, but I also need your help with something."

 

Aegon throws his head back and laughs, and Dany laughs with him. She had wished fervently her whole life that Aegon were her brother instead of Viserys. Despite having many of the same flaws as her brother, his good nature had always balanced it out. _It's too bad his ambition keeps him in Doran and Oberyn's pockets,_  Dany thinks. She wants to trust him and confide in him completely. _But Arianne's right. He's changed in the past year._ Dany wonders how they all would have turned out if the desire for power hadn't been held up as such a fundamental quality. 

 

"So. How can I help you, Auntie?" Dany punches him in the arm and rolls her eyes. 

 

"We need you to fake sick tomorrow. Your mum can help us with some stuff for the second task, but she needs an excuse to be here. Your uncle's in on it, too," Dany says. Aegon raises his eyebrows as she hands him a pack of Skiving Snackboxes.

 

"You want me to take all of these? Because that would _really_  be martyring myself for the cause."

 

"No," Dany laughs. "I figured you could pick your poison."

 

"Mmmm. Puking or coughing, which to choose... I don't really think it's realistic that my mum would come see me over a nosebleed." 

 

Dany squeezes his shoulder. "Thanks, Egg."

 

It's Aegon's turn to punch her in the arm. "So. How are things with the prodigal son of Westeros?"

 

"Ugh," Dany says. "He's delusional. He cleans up well, though, I suppose. The press likes him alright. But none of the other lords and ladies on the Wizengamot particularly give a fuck about him. He hasn't lived in Westeros for twenty years, and all of a sudden he wants to be Minister? It doesn't help that he refuses to ally himself with anyone, especially the Martells. I expect he's getting frustrated already."

 

"And how has that frustration affected you?" They've arrived at the entrance hall. Dany tries to brush the question off, but Aegon grabs her shoulders and turns her gently toward him. "You don't have to care about him, you know. I know I've been a loser these past couple months, but you have me. And you have mum, and Rhaenys. You always have a place with us. You know that, right?"

 

Dany nods tightly, a lump in her throat. Aegon sighs and lets his hands slide off her shoulders. 

 

"Well, I guess I'd better find Arianne and get it over with. No better time to atone than the present."

 

* * *

 

"It's important to remember that you can conserve the fruit or bulbs of many plants in order to grow them anew after harvesting. In fact, if you're working with rare plants, you'd be remiss not to. In the case of bulbs, you can typically just plant the entire thing and it will resume growing - like with onions, for example." The class chuckles at Professor Seaworth's reference to his own sigil. "Getting at seeds can be different altogether, though, especially if the plant is either delicate or dangerous. Goggles and gloves on, please." Seaworth begins handing out Puffapods.

 

Normally Margaery would be bored witless at spending an hour doing something she's been doing at the shop since she was nine, but today it's nice to have an assignment she could do with her eyes closed. She's been sleeping like the dead under Sansa's protection, but there's so much to do in her waking hours that she's still constantly on the edge of exhaustion. 

 

_At this rate, I'll be as much of a caffeine addict as Sansa. Better than abusing Pepper-Up Potion, I suppose._

 

"You want to cut or brew?" Loras asks beside her.

 

"Definitely cut," Margaery says. Loras isn't known for having the steadiest hand when it comes to fine work. He dutifully gets to work preparing vials of solution for the seeds to be suspended in - they'll bloom immediately upon touching anything solid.

 

Margaery levitates their Puffapod above the workbench and makes a small incision to get herself started. She lets her mind wander as she delicately opens the pod. 

 

_Our family definitely suspects foul play, with myself and Loras both having been targeted,_ she thinks helplessly. Their family's involvement is exactly what they've been trying to avoid. It's not easy, though. Her father has already begun rumbling about the Martells, despite Willas's repeated assurances that there's no bad blood. And Garlan had told her that the other houses of the Reach have begun asking if the Tyrells mean to take some sort of action. And, worst of all, her Grandmother had send her a very pointed letter - _Is there anything you want to tell me, Margaery?_

 

But Margaery has kept carefully mum about the sliced chains and about her own suspicions. _We finally have a lead, small as it might be. We need to give Elia and Lyanna a chance to uncover something before we risk bringing our parents into it._ She's particularly concerned about her mother, who according to Leonette has gone into anxiety overdrive since the Quidditch match. _The last thing we need is her doing something rash out of panic._

 

Margaery carefully levitates the seeds one by one into the vials Loras has arranged on the tray in front of her. _If only I could deal with my golden apple this easily,_ Margaery thinks. Despite putting their heads together, none of the champions have been able to work out what clue the apple represents for the next task. 

 

_Wait._

 

_I'm an idiot._

 

Margaery hurriedly finishes with the Puffapod and clears the bench. 

 

"What's the rush?" Loras asks. 

 

"Just get me a dragonbone knife, will you?" Margaery says. "The four-inch one."

 

She withdraws the golden apple from inside her robe. She's taken to bringing it with her everywhere in hopes that she'll be struck by inspiration. The flesh is hard and metallic to the touch, but maybe...

 

Loras returns with the knife, eyes widening as he understands what she's about to do. _If this doesn't work, then I'll have wrecked my only clue and I'll be_ really _fucked._ Arianne and Dany both have an apple, but there's nothing to suggest that the clues might not be individual to the champion.

 

Loras stays her hand as she's about to cut. "Are you sure this strategy is going to um... bear fruit, Marge?"

 

Margaery levels a glare at her brother. "You're literally the worst."

 

She turns her attention back to the workbench and carefully slices into the apple. The golden skin gives way to flesh, then to a single seed. The flesh is a rose-gold colour, the seed a glittering white-gold. Loras produces a container of peat moss and Margaery carefully tips the seed into it and whispers a freezing spell. 

 

Margaery is vaguely aware of Professor Seaworth watching the process raptly from across the room, his keen interest battling with his oath against interference. As she watches, the seed slowly begins to sprout, although exponentially faster than regular apple seeds would. 

 

"A pot, Loras," Margaery says, not taking her eyes off the sprout. She makes a divot in the potting mix and places the sprout in. Over the next half-hour, tiny leaves begin to break the surface of the soil. 

 

"At this rate, it'll be fully grown in a moon's turn," Loras says. Even he can't help but be awe-struck. 

 

"Let's put a ward around it," Margaery says. She thinks doubtfully about the single seed. "Hopefully it doesn't need another tree near it to bear fruit." 

 

The rest of the class has begun putting away their equipment. Professor Seaworth claps for attention, still looking at the sprout out of the corner of his eye. 

 

"As you may have guessed by looking at your supply lists, Hogwarts will be holding a Yule Ball this year for Fourth Years and up. And Ms. Tyrell," Professor Seaworth says, directing his attention to Margaery, "champions are required to bring a date, as you will be opening the ball with the first dance."

 

"Not a problem for Tyrell!" Myranda Royce calls from where she sits with Mya Stone. The rest of the class hoots good-naturedly, and Margaery grins. Her resolution to dislike Myranda on principle hasn't been going very well. _To be totally honest, she's even doing a pretty good job as Head Girl,_ Margaery thinks grudgingly. Seaworth dismisses the class, and the group explodes into excited chatter. 

 

_Things are looking up,_  Margaery thinks as she gathers her books. _Today I have some good news to deliver to Sansa, and a fancy date to ask her on._ She and Loras exchange a grin. 

 

_All those chores at the Apothecary paid off. Willas is never going to let me hear the end of this._

 

* * *

 

_I'll be at Hogwarts today to discuss business with your Uncle Renly. If you're caught up with your schoolwork, we could have tea together. - Father_

 

Shireen races down the hall, clutching her father's missive, eager to ask him if Lyanna can come over during the break. She skids to a stop outside the arched doorway of the courtyard where Renly and Margaery (and by extension Loras and Sansa) like to study and peeks in. Her father is there, sitting at one of the small stone tables with her Uncle Renly. The two of them are talking haltingly about Renly's classes. Shireen pauses at the door. There's something about the set of Uncle Renly's shoulders and the way he's tapping his fingers nervously that tells her she shouldn't interrupt. _I should leave._  Her feet seem to move without her conscious thought, though, and she ends up crouched behind a trellis. _Rickon and Lyanna are a bad influence._

 

_Are they, though? Or is this just who I am when I'm not afraid all the time?_

 

"People haven't been too unkind to you about Robert, have they?" Stannis asks stiffly. Renly shakes his head.

 

"There are people who make snide little comments sometimes, but everyone's pretty absorbed with the tournament. I keep an eye out for Shireen and especially Tommen, but they have a good little group of friends."

 

"Good. That's good." Shireen can see her father's palpable relief that she has friends she can count on. _That's alright. I'm pretty relieved too._

 

There's silence for a few moments. Shireen can almost hear her father's teeth grinding. 

 

"What did you - "

 

"I was hoping - "

 

Both men fall silent again, and Shireen cringes at the excruciating awkwardness between the two brothers. 

 

"I was hoping to talk to you about something," Renly says finally. "Something important."

 

Stannis nods tersely. _Way to make him feel more comfortable, Dad._

 

"I feel like... maybe you know this already. You probably do. I feel like everyone sort of knows. But..." Renly swallows audibly. Shireen realizes what he's trying to say and her eyes widen. She knows she should look for an exit but she suddenly feels the need to spring out from her hiding place and tell her father how much she loves Renly, and how happy he is with Loras, and how amazing Loras is, how he helps her with her flying and always saves her waffles at breakfast. And how miserable Renly looks when he has to drop Loras's hand when they enter the Great Hall, or politely decline the overtures of particularly obtuse female students. So she takes the middle road and stays put.

 

Shireen watches her father with experienced eyes. She and she alone can decipher how he's feeling from the minute changes in his stoic expression. Renly is going in blind and Shireen trembles at how brave her uncle is being.

 

"I'm gay."

 

The words hang in the air between them. Her father and her uncle are a study in contrasts. Stannis with his cropped hair, Renly with his long locks hanging loose over his shoulders. Stannis austere, Renly with jewels sparkling on his tie clip and cuff links. But in this moment of tension, they look more alike than ever - alike in a sort of desperation, Shireen thinks.

 

"Thank you for telling me," her father says carefully. "I'm not - I wish things were different. But I accept that this is who you are."

 

Renly looks relieved at first, but his relief morphs into anger. "You wish I were different," he says bitterly. "You wish I could just marry well, and not create a scandal, and be a proper man - "

 

"Stop." Stannis says. Shireen flinches, and Renly's mouth snaps shut. He's using his Dad Voice. "I am not Robert." His face is set, but his eyes are tired.

 

Renly crosses his arms obstinately.

 

"The world is unkind. Some people, through no virtue of their own, are able to move through it with ease. And as a parent, or a guardian, you can't help but hope that life will be, if not easy for your children, at least not even more difficult. But between you and Shireen..."

 

Shireen feels her heart sink. She knows her father worries about her. That he has seen how people treat her because of her face. He was the one, most of all, who had borne witness to her lonely childhood. She has never seen that burden weigh on him until this moment, and she can tell that Renly hasn't either.

 

"It's cowardly, I know. But sometimes it seems so impossible to change the world... it's easier to hope that you could change instead."

 

"I can't change, though," Renly says, smiling sadly. "And even if I could, I wouldn't. Even though it's hard. But the world can change. We can change it. We just have to fight for it. That's what Loras says, anyway, and I... on days when I feel brave, I know he's right."

 

Stannis smiles. It's the barest upturn of his lips, but it's sincere. "He is a man of principle. I respect that." A pause. "And I respect you, Renly. And I will support you, no matter what comes."

 

Renly's smile goes a bit watery. The two brothers look at each other with real understanding for perhaps the first time in years, and Shireen finally feels like she can take a breath. Renly leans over and plucks a couple of peaches from a tree. 

 

"Want one? This whole courtyard is full of fruit trees from the Reach. You've never tasted anything so sweet, I promise you."

 

Stannis takes the peach.

 

* * *

 

Sansa rushes up to the old tower, heart pounding in her chest. _Margaery said she wanted to talk about something_ important _,_ Sansa thinks. _She didn't say it was something_ bad. But Sansa's mind won't stop whirling, thinking of all the worst possible things that could have occurred. _Something happened to one of the other Tyrells. Margaery's burns actually turned out to be fatal after all and she only has weeks to live. Everything is just too much and she wants to break up. Loras has been kidnapped and needs to be rescued._ She throws open the trap door and hauls herself up with her considerable wolven strength.

 

Margaery is waiting. Sansa is upon her in an instant, taking the other girl's hands in hers. "What's wrong? What did you need to talk about? Has something happened?"

 

Margaery stares at her, wide-eyed, and Sansa becomes aware that her eyes have turned yellow as her body readies itself for action. "Right. Gods. Um. I'm so sorry. I thought bringing you up here as a surprise would be really lovely and romantic but given recent events I can see how that... may have been a terrible idea."

 

Sansa becomes aware that the tower looks different than usual. There are roses twined between the crenelations, and candles arranged in a circle around a flannel blanket. Bluebell flames in jars provide warmth. Sansa looks askance at her girlfriend.

 

"I, um, thought we could watch the sunset together?" Margaery offers weakly. 

 

Sansa lets out a shaky breath, then grins in relief. "Sorry. I'm just... a bit keyed up."

 

"No, it's definitely my fault for not being more specific," Margaery says, pulling Sansa down onto the blanket. Sansa allows herself to be guided down and pulls Margaery's head onto her chest. She runs her fingers through Margaery's thick curls, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. _There's constant vigilance, and there's hypervigilance_ , Arya had told her the other day. _You need to fucking relax, Sans._

 

Margaery reaches for Sansa's hand. "Between taking responsibility for your younger siblings and being on protection duty for me, you haven't given yourself any time to rest. You're on alert one hundred percent of the time."

 

_But what's the alternative?_  Sansa thinks. She lets out a long sigh. "It's no worse than what you're going through. When are you finally going to get a break?"

 

Margaery scrambles up abruptly to face Sansa. "Actually I _did_ get a break today. I'm not positive it will work but it's promising so far." Margaery fills Sansa in on the apple, and Sansa relaxes a tiny bit, relieved that this one thing, at least, won't be taking up constant space in her girlfriend's mind. 

 

"So is that the important thing you had to talk to me about?" Sansa asks. Margaery shifts awkwardly.

 

"Um, no actually. Not really. It's nothing bad!" She adds quickly, seeing Sansa's expression fall. "I just wanted to ask you, officially, if you would come to the Yule Ball with me."

 

Sansa laughs, and gods does it feel good to genuinely _laugh._  "Of course, silly. I mean, _obviously_." She looks at Margaery through her lashes. "It _was_  very romantic of you to ask, though." She leans in and kisses Margaery softly, letting her lips linger. 

 

Margaery deepens the kiss and moves to push Sansa onto her back, but the adrenaline from earlier is still pumping through her veins and the wolf is _very_ much awake. Sansa rolls on top of Margaery instead, who lays back with an indignant huff that dies on her lips as she gets a look at the expression on Sansa's face. She pulls Sansa down hungrily, and Sansa moans at how it feels to be flush against her. Her thigh finds its way between Margaery's legs and the other girl lets out a choked gasp.

 

"Is this okay?" Sansa asks breathily. She pulls back to look at Margaery, whose eyes are screwed shut. She waits for Margaery to open her eyes and look at her properly.

 

"Yes. _Gods_. Very... very okay..."

 

Sansa leans down to nip and bite at Margaery's collarbones, relishing the other girl's moans as they rock together. 

 

Then she becomes very aware that she's struggling to keep her incisors from sharpening. 

 

Margaery makes a noise in protest as Sansa straightens up and looks at the sky. _Full moon tomorrow night. Godsdammit_. She pushes the wolf to the back of her mind. _Be patient, you._

 

"Sorry," Sansa says, embarrassed. "We're outside and it's the full moon tomorrow night. It's, um, difficult to keep lines from blurring when things get, um, heated..." Her face is on fire.

 

"There's no need at all to be sorry," Margaery says immediately. Then she looks at Sansa curiously. "So would you, like, transform?"

 

Sansa laughs. "No. Just little things. Teeth getting sharper, which I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate. Eyes that may or may not go yellow. But if feels very, _very_ weird to be even a little bit in between, especially when things are, um, getting intimate." _And now I die. Sansa Stark, killed by awkwardness and humiliation at last._

"I bet some people are into that, though," Margaery says, considering. Sansa smacks her on the shoulder. "What? If Starks have been skinchangers for all of history, there have to be at least _some_  of them who liked getting it on with pointy teeth - you know, statistically speaking." Her eyes are laughing.

 

"Thanks," Sansa says as they head down the ladder. "Thanks _very_  much for making me think about the sexual proclivities of my ancestors."

 

"Or current family members. I never said it had to be - " Sansa hits her with a Silencing Charm.

 

As they're getting ready for bed, Sansa is surprised to hear a knock at the door, and even more surprised that it's Arya. Her sister elbows past her into the dormitory and begins taking her clothes off. Sansa notices that Mya suddenly becomes very interested in folding her comforter back. Jeyne jokingly tosses a sickle at Arya, which the younger girl catches and whips back. 

 

"Get into bed with your girlfriend, Sans," Arya says. Her tone leaves no room for argument. Sansa crawls under the blankets with Margaery as Arya transforms and lays in front of the door.

 

She sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna has been back to Hogwarts as a ghost before to watch Quidditch games, but hasn't spent a significant amount of time in the castle itself. _Twice,_ she thinks. _Once to comfort Sansa after a Joffrey-related matter, and once to secretly tutor Jon in Charms before his NEWTS._ She looks around the dark corridors and remembers running through them with abandon after almost getting caught pranking the Slytherins, sneaking back after a wild night spent in the woods... Hogwarts had been the best years of her short life, a place where her skills had been valued and a reprieve from her father's expectations. 

 

She approaches the statue of Jaehaerys II that leads to Oberyn's chambers and becomes visible. The statue slides out of the way a moment later, and Elia comes out, grinning when she sees Lyanna. Elia has Disillusioned herself, but Lyanna can see right through the spell with little effort to her sly smile and the deep purple ribbon in her hair. The two of them set off towards the fourth floor. Lyanna floats close to the ground and approximates walking as best she can. The longer she's a ghost the more she forgets how to move her body like a human. _Spending more time with humans helps, though,_  she thinks, looking sideways at Elia. The other woman has a giddy smile on her face.

 

"I feel like a schoolgirl again. Except that I never did stuff like this when I was in school."

 

Lyanna laughs. "Don't tell me you've never snuck around Hogwarts after hours."

 

"If you remember, I was Head Girl," Elia says primly, stepping delicately onto a moving staircase. 

 

"Oh I remember," Lyanna says. Elia had been a couple years ahead of her. "You caught me sneaking back to my dorm more than once."

 

"It was so hard to take points from you! You were too damn charming."

 

"In life, as in death," Lyanna jokes. "Seriously, though - you've never snuck around after curfew before? No paramours to corrupt your delicate sensibilities with a late-night tryst?"

 

"No," Elia says, eyebrow raised. "I suppose this makes you the first."

 

Lyanna gapes, then scrambles after Elia, who is definitely smirking. _A ghost, scrambling. Get it together, Lya._

 

They arrive at a painting of Hogwarts at its founding, and Lyanna says " _Whispering Wood_." The painting swings open. Lyanna floats through first, looking around just in case, then motions for Elia to join her.

 

"Do I want to know how you know this password?" Elia asks, looking around the spacious drawing room. Most of the room is taken up by a long conference table. There are bookshelves spanning one wall, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view onto the grounds on the other. 

 

Lyanna grins. "I made it my business to know my way around the castle when I was a student, but my knowledge is a little out of date. This comes from Arya. I usually don't ask where she gets her intel - plausible deniability and all that."

 

Elia moves to the cabinets at the far end of the room. "Do you think there's anything to Sansa's theory about Margaery being pushed to enter the competition?"

 

"It _is_ pretty fishy that she didn't make Head Girl," Lyanna muses. "And that she was immediately sabotaged during the Tournament. But at any rate, it's our only lead. At least until Dany and Myrcella can dig up something about their families. If they can. Cersei is definitely up to no good, but she may or may not have a hand in this _particular_  not good thing."

 

"There's no love lost between the Lannisters and the Tyrells," Elia says, rifling through the folders. "But trying to kill both school-aged Tyrell heirs? What could motivate that? Oh - here it is!" Elia pulls out a roll of parchment and lays it flat on the table. It's the minutes from the meeting where the Head Boy and Head Girl were decided. The two women lean over it.

 

"Alright. Looks like it was quite narrow. The Heads all voted for Margaery, no surprise. So the votes from Myranda came from other Board members..."

 

Lyanna floats a bit to peer over Elia's shoulder. "Nestor Royce cast his vote for Myranda, of course, as well as some other lords from the Vale..."

 

"I can't think why the Freys or the Wendwaters would go against the obvious choice to vote for Myranda... they don't have any particular ties to the Royces or problems with the Tyrells. Not that I know of, anyway." Elia furrows her brow.

 

Lyanna scans the list. _There has to be someone who's a good lead. Pyle, Kettleblack... again, strange that they would have any kind of stake in this game, and they don't have enough power to do anything so bold as take on the Tyrells. And what reason would they have, anyway?_ Then a name leaps out at her.

 

"Petyr Baelish."

 

Lyanna has never been fond of the creep, and in that moment she recalls Sansa's uneasiness about him, and her fears that he might have had something to do with Ned's imprisonment. _But why would he do something like this? He's smarter than to think that he could... what? Wipe out the Tyrells?_

 

Elia and Lyanna steal out of the drawing room. Lyanna tries not to betray her frustration at their lack of success, but Elia gives her a knowing look.

 

"I wish it had been easier. But at least now we know that there was nothing from within Hogwarts - for whatever reason, other members of the board wanted Myranda as Head Girl."

 

Lyanna sighs. "I want to suggest that Nestor was so desperate to see his daughter in a lofty position that he bribed a bunch of board members, but that's stupid. The Royces keep their hands in their pockets."

 

They turn abruptly to avoid a pair of prefects running past. "The only thing I can think is that Littlefinger is up to something," Lyanna continues. "I just can't think - _godsdammit!"_

 

They've walked directly into Rickon, Lyanna Mormont, and Shireen Baratheon, huddled behind a massive statue of Meraxes, Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon. Rickon looks equal parts guilty and surprised, and his friends just gape at Lyanna. Elia, still Disillusioned, chuckles - which puts the kids even more off balance. 

 

"Aunt Lyanna! What are you doing here?" Rickon whispers. 

 

"Definitely not hiding from Prefects, which is what I assume you're doing," Lyanna says, smirking. "What did you do?"

 

"We were _trying_  to sneak into the Great Hall to put a Sticking Charm on the benches at the Hufflepuff table. But we ran into a patrol," says little Lyanna Mormont, wrinkling her nose. 

 

"Why were you talking about Littlefinger?" Rickon asks, cocking his head.

 

"How do you know about him?" Lyanna asks, puzzled.

 

"Arya and Sansa complain about him," Rickon says, craning his neck around Meraxes's wing to check for Prefects. "And... well..." He exchanges a guilty glance with his friends. 

 

"We overheard him talking with someone when we ran away at Diagon Alley," Shireen says, speaking up for the first time. She moves her hair in front of her face self-consciously. "I mean - I didn't know who he was. Rickon recognized him. It sounded like he was up to something."

 

"I knew running into him was dangerous, and I didn't want to get in even more trouble," Rickon says miserably. "So I didn't tell anyone."

 

Elia makes herself visible. "I think this conversation calls for some cocoa and a midnight snack, don't you?"

 

Lyanna gives her nephew a level look. "Alright. We'll head to the kitchens. And you're going to tell me _everything."_

 

* * *

 

Bran runs through the woods at top speed, sharing Summer's mind. They leap over a fallen tree, just a breath behind Arya, and reunite with the rest of the pack. Bran lets the feeling of the full moon thrum through his and Summer's shared body. The rest of the pack waits in the clearing while Bran goes to check if the coast is clear.

 

One of the many good things about warging into Summer is that everyone knows Summer is Tormund's direwolf, one who has been seen many times during Care of Magical Creatures classes where Starks are present. Anyone who suspected anything about the Starks wouldn't make the connection about Summer. It makes Bran the ideal scout to see if the person Sansa is convinced is following them is anywhere to be found.

 

_Well, not just Sansa_. Everyone in the pack has had the experience of feeling followed. So far, they've all found safe places to transform, and the Starks cultivate a reputation as late-night trouble makers for a reason: even getting caught in the corridors after curfew isn't a cause for suspicion. None of them have had encounters as close as Sansa's, but they're all on edge. To the point where Sansa and Arya have pulled in some of the kids of Northern vassals to keep an eye out. Alys Karstark makes sure Lyanna gets to her dorm safe; Shireen is lovely girl, but as their parents had reminded them, she's a Baratheon, a house with no love for nonhumans.

 

Bran runs along the edge of the forest, a stone's throw away from the green. It's as he gets closer to Tormund's hut that he notices it. 

 

_Someone's here._

He slows down, sniffing the air. He doesn't recognize the scent, but he _knows_ he knows it. _I just need to get closer._

He slinks along the edge of Tormund's hut. _Whoever it is, they're right around the corner_. A branch snaps under a foot, and there's a muffled curse - Bran readies himself to leap. 

 

But Tormund hears the sound at the same time. The light comes on, and Bran hears the person running away at speed. 

 

_Godsdammit._ Bran leaps out of cover and barks furiously, as would be expected of Tormund's guard-wolf. But it's too dark, and the person is Disillusioned. Bran trots back into the woods. Reluctantly, he enters Sansa's mind and feels her whole body shudder.

 

_There was someone there,_  Bran says. _They ran away before I could see who. But the scent was familiar._

_They're getting bolder,_ Sansa says grimly. _We've only encountered them close to the castle before now_.

 

_Bolder or more desperate,_  Bran agrees. _I'll take everyone back in groups_.

 

He slides back into Summer's mind. Sansa transforms and is sick into the bushes. Sharing a mind with another human, even in wolf form, is highly unpleasant for both parties.

 

When he's safely escorted everyone back to the castle, Bran opens his eyes to his own dormitory. He sits up with the help of the bar near his bed and slides the curtains open. 

 

Jojen looks up from his book, regarding Bran steadily with his mossy green eyes. _Swamp green,_  Jojen always says jokingly. Bran always corrects him.

 

"You know you don't have to wait for me," Bran says, like he always does.

 

"I don't mind," Jojen says, like he always does.

 

"I almost caught the person who's been following us," Bran says, frustrated. He runs his hands through his russet hair. "But they ran away before I could get a look. There are just so many things I _don't know_. Who do the blue eyes belong to? Why does it feel like they can _see_  me? How do I avoid the world literally freezing over?" He lets his head fall back against the wall. 

 

Jojen looks troubled. "I can't See anything either. This is far beyond my capabilities. But maybe, with the right water, I could scry for the identity of your spy in the woods."

 

"I need to go to the Weirwood. On the solstice. On the Long Night. There will be power there."

 

"And in the stream," Jojen adds. 

 

"That's what we'll do then. My brothers can protect us. But wait," Bran adds awkwardly, "the Yule Ball is that same night. Did you - I mean, have you asked anyone?"

 

"No," Jojen says, smiling. "So yes, I will be your date to commune with the godswood regarding the impending apocalypse. One question, though."

 

Bran raises an eyebrow.

 

"What should I _wear?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think of this chapter - things are starting to come together!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! I hope you're as excited for this sequel as I am! This is definitely the most ambitious story I've ever written, so I appreciate any feedback you have. If you want to follow me on tumblr, I'm matryyoshkka (an extra k in there). I mostly post gay stuff, sansaery, and occasionally nerdy stuff about Slavic mythology and embroidery? Anyway. Hit me up on there if you like. I also have a few outtakes/what ifs from Tame as the Wild Ones that I'll be posting at some point (probably here as well). Thanks so much for your support!


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